


The Lion and the Light

by mediaeval_thotte



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Darkspawn, Dragons, F/M, Fish out of Water, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Quest, Slow Burn, Unlikely Hero, Unplanned Pregnancy, Violence, Zevran - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-01-02 11:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 82
Words: 283,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21160985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mediaeval_thotte/pseuds/mediaeval_thotte
Summary: Florence Cousland, raised in obscurity ignorant of her heritage, was never meant to lead armies. As a healer with an unnaturally close relationship with the spirits; her sole desire was to escape the Circle and return to her beloved home, Herring. Fate, however, had other plans: a millennium after Andraste, another girl from a fishing village must unite an army and defend a nation.





	1. Origins

Chapter One: Origins

The Mages' Circle tower stood on a remote island in the centre of Lake Calanhad. Accessible only by boat, it served the dual purpose of discouraging both visitors and potential fugitives alike. Vast and forbidding, six floors of Free Marches stone dominated the horizon, visible as far as Redcliffe Castle. Its architecture was neither skilful nor beautiful, but solid and imposing. There was no doubt to any onlookers that it was a prison as well as a fortress.

Grand Enchanter Irving had been in charge of this particular Mages' Circle for the past seventeen years. Wisely, he had cultivated a relationship of guarded civility with the resident Templar commander, Greagoir. By mutual understanding, the Templars guarding the tower allowed the mages within unprecedented freedom of activity and movement, and likewise the mages did nothing to jeopardise this extended trust. The Chantry military arm, despite remaining uneasy in the presence of the magic users, at least did not mistreat them.

One cool, crisp morning Irving and Greagoir were seated together in the First Enchanter's study; a surprisingly sparse office on the fifth floor of the tower. Although it lacked fine furnishings or rich fabrics, the study was crammed full of curiosities and oddities from every corner of Thedas. Despite having been in there most mornings for the past decade, it still made Greagoir a little uneasy.

"First day of Parvulis tomorrow," commented Irving, pouring a silver vessel of tea into a hovering cup. Greagoir sniffed, his own cup remaining stubbornly on its saucer.

"What is it the Common folk call it?" continued Irving, glancing out of the leaded window at the watery sunlight reflecting off the lake water.

"Kingsway," replied Greagoir, shifting slightly on his seat, wanting to get the social part of the daily meeting out of the way. "So, what is the schedule for today?"

Irving smiled behind his grey beard, sensing the Templar's discomfort.

"What is disconcerting you this time, Greagoir? It can't be the skull, for I've turned it to face away. Is it the sight of so  _ many _ books, all at once?"

Greagoir refused to rise to the subtle jibe, drawing his thick eyebrows together. His armour made a soft, metallic chink as he sat up straight in his seat.

"Evidence of blood magic was found over in Kirkwall," the soldier continued, fixing the Mage with an inscrutable stare. "Three men dead, and the Malificarum fled into the Marches."

Irving let out an imperceptible sigh. Every time there was an incident of this sort anywhere in Thedas, accusatory glances turned to the other Circles. He knew better than to try and protest, however.

"I'll ask Wynne to form an inquiry," he said, placating. "She's busy with research, but she can make time."

Greagoir gave a stiff nod. "I'll send the new lieutenant to accompany her. Cullen. Keep him from mooning around the apprentice quarters after that gluttonous girl."

Irving tapped his nails against the wooden table, thoughtfully. "And as for other business, what do we have? A delegation from the Chantry, no doubt asking for our help in translating some old scroll. Deliveries from Denerim, though of course you will know about that."  _ Seeing as you search every package that comes through the iron gates. _

"Ah, and another Harrowing," he finished, as it occurred to him. "Speaking of your lieutenant. It's the turn of that girl he has a fancy for. Let's see..."

He turned around, reached for a wooden box of record cards on a shelf behind him. Flicking through the neatly inscribed parchment, he paused, and nodded.

"Here: Flora, of Herring."

Greagoir nodded, recognising the name. Young Cullen had mentioned her over-casually in passing once or twice. Slender and barely nineteen, she had the autumnal colouring and finely hewn bone structure of a classical Fereldan beauty; yet she spoke with the common, plain cadence of a simple northern peasant. She was also renowned for her lack of magical ability, save for a passable skill at healing and shielding. 

"Do you think she'll succeed?" he asked, recalling the unfortunate apprentice who had fallen prey to a demon the previous week, whom he'd had to slay on the spot. Irving shrugged, raising his eyebrows ruefully.

"Her parents, village folk, tried to hide her; she's been a student here for four years and has failed utterly to produce any offensive magic. Maker knows how she’s going to pass."

Greagoir shrugged, setting his cup back in the saucer with a clatter.

"We'll see later, at any rate."

Meanwhile, Flora herself was blissfully unaware of the discussion taking place two floors beneath her. She was sitting on the Circle tower roof, shielded from the wind by a stone buttress, facing north across the Lake. Her legs dangled over the edge precipitously but she didn't appear to mind. Instead, she was drumming her feet absentmindedly against the stone as she squinted towards the shore, and further still to the dull grey ridge known as Glorfin's Spine.

The roof was the one place in the Circle Tower which was not under constant scrutiny by the Templar, and so far no one had caught her using the old maintenance stairway to access its lofty seclusion.

When she had arrived at Kinloch Hold at the age of fifteen, a bewildered and terrified Flora had been further disconcerted by the constant, glowering presence of the Templars. Their unrelenting presence accompanied everything the apprentices did; daily chores or specialised training. At first Flora had felt their accusatory stares heavily; but they did not interfere with her in any way and so as the months slipped past they faded into the background of her life. Since she lacked any offensive ability, they viewed her as no more threatening than a sheep in a field. 

It was more the senior mages who had the capability to make the apprentices' lives a misery. Whether it was ordering them to perform mundane tasks or insisting that unnecessary chores be repeated; if a mage took a grudge against a particular apprentice it could cause far greater misery than a Templar's accusing stare.

Fortunately, Flora had managed to avoid the ire of any of the senior mages in her four years at the circle. Uninterested and thoroughly incapable of the more aggressive forms of magic, she had a gift for creation. Her skills as a healer were much in demand by the older students, although her instructors often grew frustrated at her apathy for the other schools. 

"Do you think you can  _ heal _ a demon to death?" a teacher had demanded angrily during the previous afternoon's tutoring. In response, Flora had shrugged apologetically, aware of the fact that that she was unable to conjure even a simple match-flame. The teacher had growled in frustration and sent her away; Flora had returned to her bunk eating a sandwich. Since she was limited in ability and entirely illiterate, class was a worse chore than scrubbing the flagstones.

She recalled the teacher's scathing words once more and scowled. In an attempt to banish the memory, she dug in her pocket and retrieved a crumpled paper bag. Inside was an Orlesian sugar mouse, only slightly dented from the journey. This had been a payment for a senior student using her shielding services while experimenting with some new spell.

A nearby crow eyed her with interest as she held up the mouse, and she scowled at it.

"Go away" she berated, her words snatched by the wind. "This rodent isn't for you. It’s for MEEE!”

Below the unsuspecting Flora, preparations for her Harrowing were taking place. First Enchanter Irving and his senior aide Wynne were conferring beside the font, waiting for the alchemical reaction to take place.

"Maleficarum again," Wynne was saying irritably as she gave the mixture an anti-clockwise stir with a long-handled spoon. "Surely the Chantry have learnt by now that we despise blood magic as much as they do?"

Irving gave an eloquent shrug of his shoulders, watching the cloudy grey liquid simmer and broil in the stone vessel.

"I can understand their concern. Blood magic is a great threat to Thedas, and they must remain vigilant, whether we think it fair or not. Is it just the northern girl tonight? I thought there was another apprentice of age."

Wynne nodded, adding two drops of Deathroot essence to the mixture. It hissed, then began to coalesce into a translucent silver.

"Just the girl. I am not confident in Jowan's ability to pass the Harrowing. At least she can shield herself adeptly."

The master enchanter and his senior aide shared a mutual glance of understanding.

_ If he is not ready soon, the Templars will have to be told. The Ceremony of Tranquilisation is kinder than being thrown from the top of the tower. _

"Will the girl pass?" asked Irving, watching the now clear liquid bubble in the stone font, despite lacking any clear source of heat. Wynne let out a sigh, placing a hand on the small of her aching back.

"I'm not sure, Irving. Her creation skills are quite astounding for an apprentice, but she has no affinity for offensive spells. It's remarkable how resistant she is to leaning anything from that field."

_ Or learning anything at all. Poor, simple girl. _

Irving sighed, conscious of the silent Templar standing six feet behind them, arms crossed, never permitting himself to lean back against the stone. An early seasonal rain drummed gently against the leaded windows, the sky a pallid grey.

"The Fade offers unique challenges," he said at last, fingering the heavy gold coin he always wore around his neck. "Perhaps it will test her differently."

"Maybe," replied Wynne, clearly unconvinced. "Or she'll heal herself to exhaustion, then the demons will take her."

Irving frowned, idly inspecting the contents of a pale blue vial of liquid.

"Don't damn her so quickly," he murmured, replacing the vial in the rack. He felt Wynne sigh, then pause. He could hear the hesitation hanging in the air between them, like a thick grey cloud.

Irving closed his eyes for a moment, then lowered himself into one of the comfortable armchairs that stood at the edge of the Harrowing circle.

"I know what you're going to ask me, Wynne," he said evenly, his eyes wandering to the vaulted ceiling. "Greagoir tells you all the details of my private correspondence."

The old woman stopped pacing the outer ring of the circle and peered at him, her gaze sceptical.

"What do you think?"

Irving made no reply, allowing apprehension to constrict his heart for a moment. The griffon seal on the Grey Warden's letter materialised at the forefront of his mind.

_ By the old treaties, you are obligated to provide assistance when requested. There is a Blight coming. The darkspawn already seethe on the surface. It is only a matter of time before they swarm. _

_ Duncan, Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens. _

"I hope he is being over cautious," the First Enchanter said after a few moments, leaning back in the armchair. His eyes drifted over the pedestal and chalice set up for that evening's Harrowing.

"The signs indicate that he is not," countered Wynne evenly, folding her arms across her scarlet robes of leadership. Irving sighed, mentally laid the letter to one side.

"He is coming tomorrow, so let us not brood on it now. There is nothing that can be done tonight."

Wynne shot him a glance that told him exactly what she thought of procrastination, but bowed her head obediently and headed for the stairwell. The Templar guarding the doorway stepped back with guarded respect to let her pass.

Later that night, Flora was busy dozing in her bunk; dreaming that she was a haddock splashing about in the shallows of the Waking Sea. On the shore lay Herring, the village of her childhood; nearby, the jagged reef known as the  _ Hag’s Teeth  _ scythed out into the swirling, grey waters like an Antivan blade. 

_ This is my favourite dream,  _ Flora-fish thought to herself, contentedly.  _ I’m a fish and I’m back home.  _

** _Wake up! _ ** lectured her spirits, their hollow voices rustling like crushed leaves in the back of her mind.  ** _It’s time. _ **

_ Oh! But I’m enjoying being a fish. Do I have to wake?  _

** _Yes. This is the beginning. _ **

_ Beginning of wha-  _

Flora woke abruptly, sitting bolt upright in the narrow bottom bunk assigned to her in one of the junior dormitories. Skaldia, a fellow apprentice, was bending over her, clutching a flickering candle in a brass holster, looking disapproving as per usual.

"It's time, Vase," she hissed in an undertone, making a half-hearted attempt not to disturb the three other students currently snoring in the bunks. Flora stared up at the slender girl in shock for a moment, not fully comprehending the significance of her words. However, she understood all too well the familiar mocking cognomen.

_ Vase. A lovely outside; containing nothing of use or value. _

"Time for what?" Flora asked stupidly, her words punctuated by a yawn. Skaldia raised her eyes to the stone ceiling, just as two Templar arrived in the doorway.

"Your  _ Harrowing,  _ idiot," she hissed, yanking off the blankets and pinching at the girl's arm to hasten her movements. Flora, clad in the simple linen nightwear assigned to all initiates regardless of gender, stumbled to her feet.

"It  _ can't _ be tonight!" she bleated at Skaldia as the older apprentice chivvied her towards the spiral staircase that wound between the different floors of the Tower.

"I still haven't learnt how to use primal magic!" the northern girl continued, panting slightly as she pleaded with Skaldia's unsympathetic back. “Could you quickly teach me now, before ws go upstairs?”

Flora could hear the metallic footsteps of the Templar escort behind them, falling into a conjoined rhythm. She realised with a sickening lurch of alarm that if she failed to complete her trial, one of these two men would execute her

”Not my problem!" Skaldia sang over her shoulder as they began to climb. For several moments the stairway was devoid of sound, save for the heavy metallic chink of boots against stone, and Skaldia's laboured breathing.

Flora, who was now in a state of mild shock, followed her numbly. The Harrowing trials were an unavoidable element of life at the Tower- apprentices were summoned to the top floor at least once a week. Some would return in exhausted triumph for a last night's rest with their former peers, before ascending to the initiate's floor the next morning.

Others did not return at all, and those who had cared for them needed to persuade the Templars who had been on duty that night to provide them with the full details. Inevitably, they had failed in their task and had been struck down as an abomination; or they had taken the unenviable but far safer route of agreeing to become a Tranquil. Those who underwent the Tranquillisation process were usually assigned drudge roles, in stock rooms or kitchens.

"I'm not ready," she wailed again at Skaldia's back, stumbling on one of the uneven stone steps. “Can’t I go back to bed?”

Skaldia cast a pitying look over her shoulder as she came to a halt before a pair of high wooden doors, the stone stairs ending abruptly.

"Good luck," she said, finally showing a glimmer of compassion and flashing the girl a wry smile. "Hopefully I'll see you in the morning."

She proceeded to knock smartly on the wooden door; before nudging Flora between the shoulderblades. Flora, her teeth chattering like Antivan castanets, shuffled forward. 


	2. A Harrowing Experience

Flora almost fell through the doorway, stumbling inelegantly over the threshold with a grunt. The room was brighter than the dim stairway, lit by several standing candelabras, and she took a moment to blink and regain her vision.

_ Oh no, _ she thought wildly, her heart thudding painfully against her breastbone. _ Noooo. _

** _Calm down, _ ** entreated her spirits, gentle and reproachful. ** _We will help you._ **

The Harrowing Chamber, the subject of much speculation by the apprentices, was smaller than they had envisioned. Circular and windowless, with a vaulted glass ceiling that displayed the heavens like a glorious mural, it was almost devoid of furniture. Only a pedestal stood in the centre of the stone flagstones, with several armchairs placed discreetly to one side. There had once been several paintings of legendary magisters on the walls, but these had been removed by the Templars to avoid inadvertently inspiring too much ambition.

The First Enchanter stood behind the pedestal, his fingers absentmindedly stroking his salt and pepper beard. He was clad in full regalia, despite the late hour. Beside him stood an older woman with white hair pulled back in a severe bun, whom Flora vaguely recognised from the third floor library. Since Flora could not read, the only time that she was ever summoned to the library was when she was running errands for the more valuable residents of the Circle. She felt the silent, immobile presence of the Templars behind her and stepped forward, bowing her head. There was a nasty churning in her belly, and she wondered if she was going to be sick. 

_ Don’t be sick on the First Enchanter’s shoes. They probably cost more than Herring! _

Irving looked her over, curious. With three dozen apprentices currently residing in the Tower, this one had never demanded much of his time or attention. He knew her for her looks - she had the sort of face that was impossible to ignore - but there was little in the way of talent, education or natural intellect, housed within the lovely exterior. Now she bore herself humbly, keeping her eyes lowered to the flagstones, shoulders hunched.

"Look at me, child," he said, curiosity getting the better of him. She raised her face to his and he inhaled, curiosity piqued. Her face was finely hewn, good breeding written across the high cheekbones, sloping nose and delicate jawline. The eyes were vast and solemn, the pale grey of rainwater, outlined as though with an ink-pen. 

It was not unusual to have children of noble birth sent to the Circle – it mattered not what class a mage was born into; they all had to submit themselves to a tower. But usually their families sent gifts, boons and patronage to ensure that life was made as comfortable as possible, within reason. Flora had received nothing in four years.

"Your family," he said after a moment, feeling a brief moment of pity for the girl; she was clearly terrified. "Are they originally from Ferelden?"

"My p-parents are from Herring," Flora whispered, her eyes drawn to the chalice of clear liquid sat on the cusp of the pedestal. "My dad's a fisherman."

Irving raised his eyebrows, but did not allow his response to go further than his mind. _ Probably some noble's bastard. _

"Herring? It's unfamiliar to me."

"It's a small fishing village on the north coast, near Highever," interjected Wynne, helpfully. Flora nodded dumbly, quaking in her boots.

"Do you know what a Harrowing entails?" the First Enchanter asked suddenly, a note of steel running through his questioning. New initiates were officially forbidden from discussing the details of their Harrowing with apprentices; yet inevitably rumours and half-truths swirled among the bunks and study carrels of the lower floors.

Flora blinked, wondering whether she was being tricked into demonstrating her own lack of awareness. 

"I think- it's to do with the Fade," she said after a moment, feeling the keen stare of the white-haired woman on her. Irving nodded, gesturing for her to come closer. Flora edged towards him.

"I'm not your executioner, child." This was said with surprising patience. "Your success depends on you alone."

_ That's what I'm worried about, _ thought Flora darkly, feeling her heart beating against her ribcage. _ It depends on me being able to do something which, up to this point, I haven't been able to do at all. _

"Yes," replied Irving, lifting the chalice and dipping it into the pedestal basin, scooping up a half-measure of translucent silvery liquid. "When you sip from this, you will enter the Fade. A demon will try to claim you. You must defeat it."

The rumours and gossip had suggested as much, and this came as no surprise to Flora. She swallowed, and took a deep, painful breath. 

** _Take it. _ **

_ But I’m scared! _

** _Just take it, little one._ **

Flora reached forward and took the chalice. Cradling the silver stem reluctantly between shaking fingers, her eyes moved from Irving to the older woman behind him.

"Just a single sip," Wynne reminded her gently. "Any more and you might never wake up."

Flora glanced over her shoulder at the two Templar, standing either side of the doorway. She did not recognise them, and they kept their eyes angled away from her. Her own gaze was drawn to the steel shortswords that hung from their belts.

"There is always the option to undergo Tranquilisation, if you do not wish to undergo the Harrowing," continued Wynne, following Flora's glance. "Though it would be a shame, I have heard you are a healer of some skill."

Flora, gaping at the prospect of not being able to truly enjoy her dinner ever again, shook her head rapidly.

"Then don't keep an old woman up all night," the senior mage snapped irritably, narrowing pale blue eyes.

Flora raised the chalice and gulped down a sizeable amount of the pale liquid. It tasted very cold and slightly sour, and left a tingling aftertaste in her mouth.

A moment later she coughed, dropping the silver chalice on the floor. The waking world began to constrict, the candles flared brighter and the features of the First Enchanter elongated before her.

Less than ten seconds after she began to look unsteady on her feet, she slumped to the flagstones with a thud, her small hand flung out towards the feet of the Grand Enchanter.

Irving sighed, stooping to pick up the dropped chalice and replace it on the pedestal.

"She took rather a large gulp, did you notice?" Wynne commented, retreating to one of the armchairs and lowering herself into it with a sigh. Irving followed her after a moment, watching the Templars move into position.

The two armed men flanked the slumped girl, hands on the hilts of their shortswords. If she awoke under the possession of a demon, they would kill her without hesitation. It was the reason why there was no carpeting to soften the inevitable slump into unconsciousness; flagstones could be washed clean of blood and gore. Only last week, Irving had watched a promising young apprentice die under the sword of Greagoir himself. Initiate Firthing had fallen victim to a Pride demon in the Fade, and had never awoken. Irving bore no resentment towards the Templar commander; it was a necessary danger inherent in their very existence – and no demon could be allowed to live in the waking world, even limited in the vessel of a mage.

_ Flora awoke to the sound of an unnatural wind, hollow and thin. She opened her eyes, immediately recognising the ethereal world of the Fade. All mages were familiar with the alien landscape of craggy rocks and greenish sky; their dreams were spent probing the edges of the Veil, squinting through to see what lay behind. Far above her head an arcane storm raged, dark floating islands hovered miles away. On one of these the Maker himself was said to have once dwelled. _

_ Flora clambered to her feet, exhaling. It felt different to be here and conscious, her vision was almost lucid, the edges of her eyes only slightly blurred. She had no weapon or runic robes, but stood there barefoot in her baggy linen nightwear. _

"_ I could have at least dreamed up a staff," she said to herself, the sound echoing slightly. “Or the ability to actually cast a spell.” _

"_ Would a weapon be any help?" came a small voice from somewhere beside her left foot. Flora jumped, peered down at the ground. A small brown mouse looked back up at her, dark-eyed and implacable. _

** _Careful._ **

“_ Hmmm" said Flora, eyeballing the creature suspiciously. The mouse canted its head to one side. _

"_ You've just arrived, haven't you? Are you going to kill the rage demon?" _

"_ A rage demon?" Flora paled slightly, glancing over her shoulder. "Is that what's here? Oh, noooo!” _

_ The mouse nodded. "I know where it is." _

_ Flora crouched down, peered into the shiny dark eyes of the creature. _

"_ And what are you?" she asked, raising her voice as an arcane storm moved overhead. “Are you a spirit, too?” _

"_ I'm Mouse," replied the creature. _

"_ Have you been here long?" Flora glanced over her shoulder anxiously as she spoke, half-expecting the rage demon to burst out from the rubble behind her. _

"_ I've lost count of the days," replied the mouse, wistfully. "I've been trapped here since my own Harrowing." _

_ Flora grimaced. _

"_ Well, I have to kill the demon somehow," she said, her brow furrowed. "Do you have any advice?" _

_ The mouse trembled. "It's very powerful," it replied, solemnly. "That's why I'm so small. It doesn't notice me." _

_ Flora sighed, clambering to her feet. "You're not very helpful," she replied, glancing around. “I can’t heal it to death.” _

_ There were several branching pathways, each curling away out of sight through the craggy terrain. As a mage, she was not unfamiliar with the landscape of the Fade- but it had always been experienced through an unseen veil, and she had moved through it as an ethereal presence. The feeling of it solid and real, audible and sulphurous was not pleasant. _

"_ My trial is to kill the rage demon," Flora repeated, picking one of the paths at random and setting off with purpose. The mouse scuttled behind her, barely able to keep up. _

"_ Which might be difficult because I can't cast primal magic," she continued, gloomily. “I ain’t- I’m not a very good mage.” _

_ The path shelved steeply down the side of a gravelly slope and she edged her way down, wishing that she had also dreamt herself some shoes. _

"_ I know some spirits who could help you," said the mouse, catching up as she edged down the uneven surface. Flora glanced down at him and shook her head. _

"_ I don't want help from your spirits," she said, carefully. "I’ve got spirits that’ll help me." _

"_ Where are they, then _ ?" _ demanded the mouse, following her as she came to a rotten wooden bridge that traversed a precipitous chasm. Flora shrugged, edging over the precarious walkway, clutching the rope handles. She was reasonably confident that if she was going to die in the Fade, it would not be from plummeting to her death. _

"_ Let me help you," demanded the mouse, it's voice deepening. Flora, having crossed the bridge, turned around to eye it. _

** _Don't trust it._ **

"_ I don't need your help," she repeated patiently, glancing around at the craggy rocks to determine where the path lay. _

"_ Why?" _

"_ Because I don't want it," she said after a moment, raising her voice over the crackling of the arcane storm overhead. "Why are you so annoying?" _

_ The mouse flickered for a moment, for a mere blink of an eye; but it was enough. Flora backed away, her own eyes widening. _

"_ You're not a mouse," she breathed in accusatory tones, feeling the rocky wall against her back. The mouse flickered once more, then seemed to fade out of existence. Flora exhaled unsteadily, feeling her heart thudding against her ribcage. _

_ A moment later the demon materialised in its true form, as a monstrous wolf with prominent spikes protruding over its body. When it spoke, the words came out half-snarled, with an unnatural echo. _

_ Flora felt beads of sweat forming on her forehead, her palms dampening as she clenched her fingers. _

"_ Why didn't you want my help? You might have survived this." _

_ “Argh!” _

It had been barely three minutes since the young Cove girl had taken the draught. The stars edged across the sky as the deepest part of the night drew in. Irving sat in the armchair opposite Wynne, picking up an old tome on complex potion making. The white-haired woman was continuing to make notes on a slip of parchment, listing supplies that needed to be purchased in her small, careful handwriting. Irving had lost count of the nights they had spent sitting opposite each other, while a young mage lay on the flagstones between them.

"She's moving," said sharp-eyed Wynne suddenly, lowering her quill, her brow furrowing.

"It's too fast," muttered Irving, glancing at the hourglass on the stand beside him. "Three minutes. Stand ready."

The two Templar visibly tensed, unsheathing their swords. Standing only a few feet away, their job would be to strike the girl down if she had indeed become an abomination. Irving placed the book on a nearby table and watched Wynne as she rose to her feet.

The girl was definitely nearing consciousness now, her fingers twitching and her mouth moving silently. The junior Templar glanced at his commanding officer, who gave a slight nod. The younger man would be the one to perform the task.

Wynne, who had approached Flora carefully, lowered herself to her knees. She knew better than to get too close. Although demons who had recently passed through the Veil were initially weak, she had an old scar that reminded her to be cautious.

"What's your name, child?" she asked, quiet and calm. The girl grimaced, then opened one eye. Wynne felt herself relax a fraction- _ no pale white stare _. The iris was a clear, limpid grey.

"Your name, mage!" demanded the younger Templar, and the older woman glowered at him.

_ Inexperienced. Nervous. Watch him; make sure he doesn't get too overexcited, or quick with his blade. _

Flora opened both eyes and squinted at Wynne. Although she was well aware of the procedure, it took her a moment to respond.

"Flora," she mumbled, her tongue still numb from the potion. “Flora, of Herring.”

Wynne exhaled in relief, nodding at Irving. The Templars stepped back, sliding their shortswords back into their hilts. Irving smiled through his beard and rose to his feet.

"Congratulations, young one. You have successfully passed your Harrowing. In the morning, your possessions will be taken upstairs to your new quarters. Welcome, sister of the Circle."

Flora barely heard him, her body overcome by sudden and intense fatigue. The ceiling seemed to lurch above her and she squeezed her eyes shut, the voices fading in and out.

"She's exhausted."

"Take her back to the dormitory. Let her sleep it off."

The last memory that Flora had of the Harrowing chamber was of the junior Templar scowling down at her, fingers hovering on the hilt of his sword as though disappointed to be deprived of some action. 

Moments later, Irving turned his attention from the lieutenant slinging the unconscious student over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

"If this Grey Warden does indeed come tomorrow, he may invoke the old treaties," he mused, leaning against the stuffed back of the armchair. Wynne, throwing one last glance towards the Templars, approached and sank down in the armchair opposite him. Although the cup of tea on the side table was stagnant, she downed it in several gulps.

"The Circle is obligated to offer assistance," she said after a moment, raising her eyes to the glass domed ceiling.

There was silence for several minutes, interrupted only by Irving's thoughtful tapping of fingers against the leather binding of his book.

"A Fifth Blight," he mused, following Wynne's stare up to the deceptively calm night. "Maker, have we not suffered enough?"

"Maker or no," replied Wynne dryly, stifling a yawn as a silent Tranquil began to clear away the Harrowing apparatus. "They shut us up in towers but they're quick enough to request our assistance in war."

From outside, distant and free in a way that a Circle Mage could never be, an owl hooted. The night seemed deceptively calm, the waters of Lake Calanhad lapping at the rocky shore. It was hard to imagine a seething horde surging up from the Deep Roads, hell bent on the destruction and domination of the surface world.

"I wonder how she overcame the demon," Wynne said suddenly, breaking the finely spun silence between them. Irving glanced at her, feeling a deep tiredness seeping through his brain.

"Eh?"

"The girl. She's a healer."

Irving shrugged as he pushed himself up from the armchair, fatigue gnawing at his bones.

"Many mages are."

"No, she _ only _heals. I remember where I heard her name from, now. Her tutor told me: she's never successfully channelled primal magic."

Irving frowned, but his mind was occupied by thoughts of rest and recuperation.

"Perhaps under the circumstances she found that she was…capable," he replied, retrieving the staff that doubled as a walking stick.

"Hm." Wynne looked unconvinced.

"Get some sleep," he chided her over his shoulder, heading for his private quarters. "We have to do battle with the Grey Wardens tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Poor Flora - I feel guilty unleashing her on the world as a one-trick pony, but there have to be mages out there who are only proficient at a certain school of magic! She can do two things and two things only: heal and shield! However, she’s not had a chance to demonstrate how good she is at these two things because the Circle tower isn’t the right kind of environment to display such skills!


	3. The Maleficar

Chapter Three: The Maleficar

There were no windows in the apprentice bunkrooms; for the sole reason that new initiates to the tower often sought to escape. Although they were a hundred metres up from the rocky terrain, it had been known in the past for desperate captives to leap from whatever orifices they could find, in last-ditch bids for freedom.

Finally, the First Enchanter had called in stonemasons from the shore and had the windows filled in, then covered with hanging tapestries. Apprentices were awoken either by the internal workings of their bodies, or by the irritated shouts of tutors and senior initiates.

The morning after her Harrowing, Flora was roused by being jostled roughly. A hand was gripping her shoulder, a voice speaking urgently in her ear. She groaned, her body leaden and her mind clouded, then attempted to roll over and ignore the unwanted presence.

" _ Flora! Flora, wake up!" _

Finally, she gave up the pretence of sleep and sat up in her lower bunk, dishevelled and yawning. Blinking to restore her blurred vision, she saw a dark-haired, moon-faced initiate hovering anxiously at her side. As usual, he was fiddling with the gold chain that hung around his neck, fingers rubbing compulsively over his family crest.

"Hungh," Flora mumbled, the inside of her mouth and throat raw. “Did I miss breakfast?”

Jowan and Flora had been admitted to Kinloch Hold at the same time, he a few years older than she. His parents, wealthy Orlesians distantly related to Empress Celene, had managed to evade the Templars for longer than most. An alliance of convenience had sprung up between the young aristocrat and the fisherman's daughter, both unused to confinement and the rigour of academic study.

Despite this, Flora was still somewhat surprised to see him at her bedside. For the past sixth months, Jowan had been increasingly distant, avoiding tutorials and ducking out of meals early. She had barely seen him for the past few weeks, only catching glimpses of a maroon-robed figure- he had plainly refused to wear the plain khaki initiate uniform- hurrying past her in corridors and passageways with a quick raised hand of greeting. He spent most of his time lurking around the small Tower Chantry – most believed that some divine vision had inspired this new piety.

Crueller whispers suggested that, as he approached his twenty third birthday with no sign of being ready for the Harrowing; he instead was preparing an escape route into the Chantry to avoid Tranquillisation.

"Flora," Jowan hissed, his pale face close to hers. "Did it happen last night?"

Flora pressed her thumbs into her eyes, the blankets tangled over her lap. She felt grubby and her fingertips were pink and tender to the touch.

_ That only happens after I've cast too much,  _ she thought to herself, wishing she could remember the events of the previous night. _ Did my spirits kill the demon for me? _

"Yes," she replied, surprised at the hoarseness of her voice. "I passed.”

Jowan's pupils constricted; he recoiled from her as if struck. Pacing the narrow space between the bunks, he shot her an incredulous glance.

"But you weren't  _ ready!" _ he said after a moment, his voice high and outraged. "I'm far more proficient than you at primal magic! You can’t even light a candle!"

Flora swung her legs out of the bunk and rose somewhat unsteadily to her feet. Her limbs felt sore and stiff, as if she had run the entire length of the Kingsway.

”Dunno," she yawned, wandering over to the armoire and grimacing at her dishevelled reflection. “But I ain’t dead,” 

"And you're four years younger than me," he added, his upper class drawl tinged with alarm. Flora shrugged, dragging her fingers through the heavy strands of dark red hair in a vain effort to flatten them.

"Flora, stop staring at yourself and look at me!" Jowan demanded, a note of imperiousness creeping into his increasingly desperate voice. Flora turned around and stared at him, wide-eyed.

"I'm sure they'll call you soon," she replied, pragmatically. “Don’t worry about it. Have they rung the bell for breakfast yet?”

Jowan strode across the flagstones and gripped her by the shoulders. His face, pale and padded from years of over-indulgence, hovered inches from hers.

"Flora, don't you  _ understand? _ I'm to be made Tranquil, I know it!"

She fell silent, her brows drawing together as her grey eyes met his anxious dark ones. The sounds of other initiates talking in the passage filtered in distantly through the stone walls.

" _ I'm  _ to be made Tranquil," he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "After everything my family has done for this Tower. Paid for the new wing to the library. Sent those rare runestones from Tevinter. Maker, the First Enchanter attended my father's investiture ceremony!"

Flora gazed stupidly up at him, not knowing the right words to say. No Mage initiate was unaware of the Tranquil. They were an ubiquitous presence within the Tower, quiet and obedient, serving without question. Initiates too scared, or too incapable, to undergo their Harrowing had their connection to the Fade severed, at the cost of their own emotions. It was yet another cost of being unwittingly born a practitioner of magic, and a penalty all initiates were familiar with.

"Sorry," Flora mumbled, wrestling ropes of hair into a loose braid. "I'm sure it'll happen soon."

"You don't understand!" Jowan retorted, his fingers digging into her shoulders. "You don't..."

He broke off, glanced over his shoulder at the ajar door behind him. Withdrawing, he strode to close it, then approached her. His eyes were wide and scared, like a rabbit who had just caught wind of a distant wolf, aware of danger but not yet able to see it.

"I've met a girl."

Flora gazed warily at him, edging out from where he had cornered her by the armoire. Romances between initiates were not uncommon, seeing as the majority were in late adolescence or their early twenties.

"Who?" she asked curiously, sitting on the edge of the bunk and peering up at him. “It ain’t allowed, you know.”

He grimaced, running thick fingers through his oiled dark hair.

"It's a girl from the Chantry," he said at last, a hint of desperation in his voice. "Lily. We're…we're in love."

Flora gaped at him, understanding enough of Chantry politics to know that this was forbidden.

"Jowan!" she hissed at him, her eyes wide. "That’s breaking RULES."

He glared down at her, angry and uncertain. The air was taut between them.

"I am  _ aware _ , Flora! Yet it's happened."

Flora fell silent for a moment, twisting her fingers in her lap.

"What are you going to do?"

"We're going to run away," he replied, his eyes steely. Flora stared up at him, shaking her head.

"Jowan, you can't," she breathed, feeling her heartbeat thudding against her ribcage. "They'll hunt you down like… like angry sharks.”

She was referring to the Templars, who maintained order in Feralden under the authority of King Cailan himself. Any Mages who fled the protective prison of a Circle were known as  _ apostates,  _ and were at risk of being killed on sight.

"I have no choice,," Jowan said, his tone softening slightly. "I love Lily. She's going to flee the Chantry."

"Why are you telling me?" Flora gazed up at him, helplessly. He shook his head, glanced towards the door. Soon, senior students would be arriving to bring Flora's few possessions up to the apprentice quarters.

"I'm going tonight," he said, stiffly. "I just wanted to- let you know. In case I don't see you again."

Flora stared at him, twisting the end of her braid around her finger. They had formed an unlikely friendship, having spent a week travelling to the Calenhad tower in each other's company, escorted by unsmiling Templars.

The nineteen year old Jowan, whose parents had bribed the commander, was seated up front in the carriage. Flora, four years his junior and the unkempt child of villagers with no coin to spare, had been handcuffed in the wagon. The young noble had taken pity on her and bribed the Templars to bring her into the carriage.

Since then, they had maintained a strange but persistent connection – despite being assigned to different classes and bunkrooms. Their friendship became somewhat strained after two years, when Jowan confessed that he had fallen in love with her- which of course was untrue. It was a hasty and lust-fuelled declaration prompted by a pretty face; and their shared status as latecomers.

After she had gaped at him in bewilderment, he soon regretted his impulsive declaration and quickly assured her that a noble of his class could never be with the daughter of a fisherman.

Even with this oddness between them, Flora was still sorry to see him go. With his natural disinclination to do any academic work and her total inability to do so, they had formed an unlikely alliance.

"You won't say anything, will you?" he asked her, his eyes searching her face as he silently reminded her of their shared history. Flora stared at him, her brow furrowed.

"I don't-," she began after a moment, then startled as someone approached in the passageway. Jowan drew back as a young woman clad in the plain brown garb of a Tranquil entered.

"Flora," stated the girl, flatly. They both immediately recognised her as an initiate who had been deemed too weak to undergo the Harrowing, and had been taken for Tranquillisation several weeks prior.

"I am to bring your possessions to the upper floor. Please follow me."

As with all Tranquil, her tone was calm and even, her face devoid of any expression. Jowan shot Flora a significant look, nudging the woman roughly to one side as he left. The Tranquil showed no reaction, despite stumbling. Flora grimaced, rising to her feet.

"Thank you," she mumbled, scooping her carry bag from beneath the bunk. "I don't have much stuff."

Flora then dropped to her knees and reached beneath the bunk, retrieving several items of smuggled food and a hairbrush.

A tangle of clothing joined the pile, crumpled and nondescript. She scrambled upright and hastily shoved everything into the leather bag. The Tranquil reached for it, and Flora held up her hands to stop her.

"I don't mind carrying it!"

The Tranquil fixed her with a blank stare.

"I was instructed to bring up your possessions."

Flora stared for a moment, then acquiesced.

"Sorry," she breathed, her mind inadvertently resting on Jowan and the fate he was so sure was ordained for him. She hadn't yet decided whether she was impressed by his determination to live and love as he chose, or horrified at his defiance of the Circle and the Templars.

Despite the chamber being her quarters since her arrival, it had only taken a few minutes to pack away all signs of her four year occupation. The last thing she picked up was her staff, the conduit through which she channelled energy. It was a standard initiate staff, plain beechwood, and with the magic dampener welded on one end. This theoretically prevented any over-ambitious and under-trained initiate from blowing themselves up, although it was rather useless in Flora's case, as she was unable to conjure even a single spark.

As she followed the Tranquil's brisk, purposeful stride down the corridor, Flora glanced into the practise rooms and study carrels that branched off the main circular corridor. Nobody came out to wish her farewell. Although Circle society was ostensibly casteless, there was an unofficial but widely understood hierarchy. Those who had come from noble families retained their sense of entitlement and desire to dominate. Flora, coming from a nondescript peasantry, was at the bottom of the pecking order. Out of the noble initiates, only Jowan had deigned to speak civilly to her.

Now these same young nobles eyed her with jealousy as they watched her being escorted to the hallowed halls of the Harrowed. She could hear them whispering, incredulous and glowering, as they lurked at doorways.

"How could  _ she _ have passed? She couldn't light a  _ candle _ ."

"She obviously made some sort of deal with the demon. They should keep an eye on her. She could be an abomination in secret."

Flora ignored the muffled whispers, used to being the target of veiled insults and snide comments. She followed the Tranquil to the main staircase, guarded as always by two Templar. One of them was the young blond one who always blushed in her presence. She smiled at him politely, and as if on cue, he reddened and glanced down at the flagstones.

The elder Templar rolled his eyes and stood to one side, granting them access to the upper section of the Tower.

Flora, who had bypassed the fourth and fifth floors of the tower on her way to the Harrowing chamber, gazed around in awe. The mage floors were far more finely decorated than the initiate quarters; the flagstones covered with woven rugs, the individual rooms containing two beds rather than four. The libraries, from what she could see as they passed, were far larger and well-stocked.

The mages they encountered in the corridor looked straight through the Tranquil, but shot Flora curious looks. News of one initiate's unusual gift at creation had filtered upwards to their floor; they recalled that the girl that they had heard rumours about had dark red hair. They gazed at Flora, with her thick, burgundy hair caught untidily in a braid at the side of her head, and wondered.

"Your room," announced the Tranquil without ceremony, pushing open a wooden door at the end of an identical row. Flora followed her with some trepidation, into a small, stone-walled room with two parallel beds. A desk overflowing with parchment and writing supplies stood to one side.

"Who am I sharing with?" asked Flora, watching the woman carefully deposit the battered leather bag onto one of the beds. The Tranquil paused for a moment before responding.

"Arnette Amell."

"Is she nice?" asked Flora plaintively, sitting down on the edge of the bed, registering how comfortable it was compared to the apprentice bunks. The Tranquil made a note on a roll of parchment, then blinked at her.

"I do not know."

Flora nodded, gazing around the room. She saw the woman turning to leave and called after her.

"Thank you!"

Naturally, the woman made no indication that she had heard. Flora watched her go, leaving the door slightly ajar.

The upper floors had a different feel, she thought, lying back on the bed and listening. There was a heavy, studious feel to them, a sense of ambition and intellectual elitism. Flora felt very much out of place.

_ These floors are filled with people who have all defeated demons,  _ she thought to herself, somewhat apprehensively.  _ And speaking of that, have you remembered yet exactly how you defeated the demon? Are you so sure you aren't an abomination? _

Flora lay there for a few moments more, brooding over this ominous possibility. Then she heard movement in the corridor, muffled voices and some consternation.

"Grey Wardens,  _ here!" _

"What do they want?"

Flora had vaguely heard of the Grey Wardens before, but not for many years. Her parents had always lived in the tiny fishing village of Herring, and their view of the world was very small. Until Flora had been taken to the Circle Tower on Lake Calenhad, she had never been far enough from the sea to lose sight of it.

She sat upright and crept over to the doorway, peering around the edge of the wooden door. Two mages stood there, both in their early thirties, one clad in the scarlet garb of an instructor. They were talking hurriedly, heads bent close beneath a painting of the Divine Beatrix III. Flora sidled closer, straining to hear.

"What if they invoke the old treaties?" asked the woman, her dark eyebrows furrowing together. "They could conscript whoever they wanted!"

"The First Enchanter would not permit them to take the unwilling," replied the man, in a tone he clearly intended to be soothing. However, this only served to aggravate her more. She paced the width of the corridor, smacked her hand impatiently against the side of a stone pedestal.

"Irving is under the thumb of Greagoir, Niall" she hissed back, her dark eyes flashing. "And he is a Templar, therefore he does not care for our wellbeing. He would willingly sacrifice a mage to the darkspawn!"

She turned and saw Flora hovering in the doorway.

"Who are you?" she demanded, while Flora froze as if struck by paralysis.

"Flora," Flora breathed, horrified at being caught blatantly eavesdropping. The woman narrowed her eyes.

"Flora  _ who _ ?"

"Just Flora."

Having established that Flora was not part of any esteemed family, the woman was now able to deride her freely.

"Well, little Flora, are you a trespasser from below? Do we need to throw you from the window to return you there?"

Flora gaped, her eyes widening as she shook her head.

"Um" she whispered, feeling a hot flush creeping over her cheeks. "I passed my Harrowing last night."

"Then why are you still in the clothes of an initiate?"

"Oh," said Flora stupidly, looking down at her brown tunic. "Dunno."

"Go and change," commanded Niall, in a slightly kinder tone. "The idiotic Templar may not be able to comprehend your excuses and drag you back down."

Hoping that the woman wasn't Arnette Amell, Flora retreated back inside the room and shut the door, grimly. As her eyes settled on a discrete armoire tucked away in one corner, she found herself missing the familiarity and bustle of the apprentice dormitory. She had not been liked by the other initiates – they scorned her lack of ambition and referred to her as  _ the Vase _ : nice to look at, but vacuous inside. However they had valued her natural talent at creation magic, and treated her with a grudging respect.

_ Is this to be my home for the rest of my life? _

The thought filled her with gloom and she gritted her teeth, pulling open the drawer of the armoire. Navy linen garments lay folded within, freshly laundered and utilitarian.

Still brooding, Flora changed into the tunic coat, pulling her boots back on over the leggings. The fabric felt stiff and unfamiliar; she gazed at her discarded cotton initiate garb with some regret. The midday sun filtered weakly through the blanket of cloud that always hung over Lake Calanhad like a bridal veil.

Not wanting to tarnish her reputation any further, Flora hid her smuggled food underneath the bed and made an attempt to smooth down the stray strands of hair. The mage quarters were an unknown quantity, and she did not feel as though she had made the best first impression. Feeling another wave of exhaustion roll over her, she decided to rest for a while. Lying down on the bed, tucking the brown cotton tunic beneath her head, she fell to dreaming.

There were few guests whom the First Enchanter would personally greet at the door, but a Grey Warden was one of them. First Enchanter Irving, arthritis gnawing at his knees as he followed shortly after Wynne, felt trepidation rising with every step descended. The Templars guarding each floor eyed him warily, unused to seeing the First Enchanter out of the upper quarters.

Finally, he reached the entrance hall, with its crude iron cage and spell-guarded double doors. He could see two men standing beside the fireplace, the only one in the Tower which burnt natural wood rather than primal magic. It was a concession to those guests who were uncomfortable with the whole business of the arcane.

Irving cast an appraising eye over the Wardens. Both were clad in the distinctive grey tunics of their ancient order, but the elder was more decorated, his armour covered in filigree. Appearing in his late forties, with the rich colouring of a Rivaini, his eyes were deep set and lined. Dark, silver-streaked hair was caught back into a short ponytail, and he carried himself with gravity and purpose.

"Duncan." The First Enchanter made an educated guess, and was rewarded by the elder's tight nod. "We at Kinloch Hold are honoured to welcome the Warden-Commander of Ferelden."

Duncan inclines his head fractionally once again. "Pleased to meet you, First Enchanter."

"Can we offer you anything to eat or drink? Some tea?" offered Wynne from beside him, with the distracted tone she used when her mind was working like lightning.

"Damn, if I'd known this was a  _ social _ visit, I would have brought my less dirty uniform!"

Irving felt Wynne bristle beside him, and turned his gaze on the junior Warden. He appeared to be in his early twenties, with an arrogant, handsome face, clear hazel eyes and short, dirty blond hair.

"Alistair." The Warden-Commander shot a warning stare over his shoulder. The junior grinned, but fell quiet.

Irving returned his gaze to the senior Warden. "Shall we discuss this further in my office? It is a little more…discreet."

Duncan nodded his assent, and the strange party – two mages, and a pair of Grey Wardens- slowly made the climb back up the winding staircase. They were mostly silent, except for Alistair, who was bringing up the rear.

"Ah, how I'd missed climbing hundreds of Tower steps every day," he remarked, sarcastically. "Really, I don't know why I left the Templars."

"Because I conscripted you," shot back Duncan, who was climbing the stairs with ease despite his neatly trimmed beard being shot through with grey.

"Ah yes, there  _ was _ that," replied the younger Warden without missing a beat. "Those at the Jainen Circle still send me fan mail."

“Hm,” remarked his senior officer dryly, the corners of his mouth twitching. 

After they reached Irving's office, they were seated in armchairs and served tea by a silent Tranquil. Several minutes later they were joined by a red-faced, sweating Greagoir, who had hurried up all six flights of steps in full armour.

"Take some tea, Greagoir," urged Irving, offering him a small cup. "And a moment to rest."

"I'm fine," glowered back the grey-haired man, clearly ill at ease. There was an ancient enmity between the Templars and the Grey Wardens. The Templars were resentful that the Wardens had the legal right to pluck the best candidates from their ranks; while the Wardens resented the Templars' reluctance to offer assistance in times of crisis.

"I don't know how much you know," began Duncan, placing his barely-touched tea to one side and leaning forward. "But there  _ is _ a Blight. The Darkspawn are surging from the tunnels once more."

"They've always come out from the Deep Roads," interrupted Greagoir irritably, scratching the side of his head and eyeing the phylactery shelf with mistrust. "Why's this time any different?"

"Well, possibly because this time there's an  _ Archdemon  _ commanding them," interjected Alistair, wryly. Wynne let out a half-gasp of surprise and dismay, her gaze flickering to Irving.

Duncan nodded, his coal-dark eyes boring into the First Enchanter's own.

"It is true, though I wish it were not so," he said, quietly. "Our forces are with King Cailan at Ostagar. We have already repelled two offensives this month, and I fear we will not be able to hold the fortress if they make a third. Not without help."

"The King is there?" asked Greagoir, his bristled eyebrows rising in surprise. "Is that wise?"

"The King is more of a fool than me, and that's saying something," remarked Alistair with a shrug. Duncan sighed and nodded in confirmation.

"It is true. The King…wishes for personal glory, in addition to defending his realm."

"He  _ is  _ a fool," commented Wynne with a small frown, nudging the embers with her staff to coax the arcane flames higher.

Greagoir watched her do this with a small grimace.

"He has not yet got an heir upon Anora and he wishes to throw his life away? He will leave the kingdom in chaos before the Darkspawn even get the chance!"

Alistair grimaced, glancing into the artificial flames and shifting slightly in his chair. Duncan inclined his head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

"Regardless, we need to recruit. And a good mage is worth thirty men."

Irving sighed heavily, glancing at Wynne. The Grey Wardens had the legal right to conscript, recognised over Thedas; they could not resist the Commander's request.

"Let us discuss our possibilities," he said, spreading his gnarled fingers over the walnut tabletop.

When Flora woke up from her nap, her stomach was rumbling. It was fortunate that her body burnt up food rapidly, since she loved to eat and engaged in active consumption more than she probably ought to. Clambering to her feet, she headed to the door, wondering at the whereabouts of the still absent Arnette.

Wandering down the passage, which was far quieter than its lower counterpart, she decided to try and find some dinner. Occasionally young mages, clustering around their instructors, moved past but paid her no heed. In the Circle, intellect and ability were prized far above looks.

The libraries here seemed far larger, the shelving taller and the books older. Even the passageway itself seemed longer, even though logic dictated it should follow the same geometric circle as the floor below.

Finally arriving at the central circular chamber, she almost collided with a tall, balding man in his middle years.

"Oh!" she squawked, stepping back hastily. "I'm sorry."

"It is fine." The man spoke with the placid neutrality that indicated he was also Tranquil. He was standing in front of a partitioned off section of the chamber, guarded by an iron grille. Through the bars, floor-to-ceiling shelving strained under the weight of boxes and phials.

"What's here?" asked Flora, somewhat plaintively, peering past the tall man into the guarded room. "Is this the kitchen?"

The man shook his head, neutral smile persisting.

"This is the stockroom, where you may obtain supplies and make orders. I am Owain, the provisioner."

"I'm Flora," Flora replied, her shoulders slumping. "I was looking for dinner.”

"I see," commented Owain, polite and incapable of interest. She glanced up at him, guardedly.

"Do you have  _ any _ food?"

"The pantry is that way." He raised a finger, face blank.

"Oh! Oooh.” 

In the First Enchanter's office, negotiations had stalled. Irving had suggested three candidates, Wynne had argued against two of them and Duncan had not wanted an untrained apprentice. Greagoir, unable to contribute but not willing to leave the discussion, sat glowering in one corner.

Duncan and Irving were bent over the thick ledger that contained details of all current mages, along with meticulous notes on their skills and aptitude. Alistair was inspecting the contents of a shelf, his eyebrows occasionally rising to his hairline.

"First Enchanter!" A young woman dressed in the robes of a Chantry sister flung herself over the threshold of the office. Greagoir rose to his feet, drawing his sword reflexively. Irving also stood, alongside Wynne and Duncan.

"What's wrong, Sister Marguerite?" Wynne stared at the woman, feeling cold fingers of alarm creep around her throat. The woman was wild-eyed, her face pallid.

"One of our Chantry priestesses is with a mage initiate! They're trying to escape the Tower together."

Greagoir shot a glance at Irving, who groaned and raised a hand to his head.

"Excuse me, Knight-Commander," he said, reaching for his staff as he made his way towards the exit. "One does have to handle this type of incident occasionally."

"Ah, young love," commented Alistair, folding his arms and glancing over at Duncan. The Knight-Commander frowned, then gestured for them to follow the old mage out of the office.

The First Enchanter, urgency lending him haste, led the group down the winding staircase. As misfortune would have it, many of the Templar guards were in the external courtyard overseeing a gaggle of new recruits. Greagoir was close at the older man's heels, adrenaline coursing through his veins at the thought of a possible fugitive.  _ Another apostate to be hunted down. _

There was shouting from the floor below, the noise drifted up to them even as they hurried down the winding stone staircase. It was the voice of a young man, noble born, angry and desperate. A woman was crying, nearly hysterical with fear.

The Templar standing on guard at the fourth floor- Irving recognised him as Greagoir's young lieutenant- shoved open the door for them, his own sword drawn. The scene in the circular lobby could have been drawn straight from an Orlesian play.

A young apprentice, maroon robes stretched over a well-fed stomach, was panting hard beside the stockroom entrance. Beside him, a Chantry sister dressed in a long travel cape was sobbing, her hands over her face. The man's face was reddened and furious, although he wielded no staff. Hovering in the entrance to the stockroom was the Tranquil quartermaster, his face impassive.

" _ I will not become Tranquil! I love her!" _ the young man shouted, spittle flying from his lips, in Irving's direction. Wynne held out her hands placatingly.

"Let's all calm down and discuss this civilly," she called across the circular hall, aware of Greagoir's eager fingers twitching on his pommel beside her.

"Jowan, it's too late! We have to give up," called the girl, sinking to her knees in supplication. "I'm so sorry!"

" _ No, Lily! _ " hissed the mage apprentice, an ugly snarl transforming his face into pure malevolence. "They can't keep me here anymore!"

Duncan glanced at Alistair; the two Wardens stepped forward to flank Irving. The mage's head spun back and forth between them, his pupils dilating in panic. He reached inside his robes and Greagoir let out a shout of warning.

Time seemed to stop still for a moment. Then events jumbled together, cascading into one another so that afterwards, no one could say if anything could have been done to prevent it.

The mage initiate withdrew a dagger from his robes, the metal flashing like sunlight off the lake water. He brought it down, fast as a sweeping bird, and sliced off the ear of the Chantry priestess. She shrieked and clapped a hand to the side of her head, blood surging from between her fingers.

" _ MALEFICAR!"  _ roared Greagoir, drawing his sword.

"What have you done?" breathed Wynne in shock and horror, raising her own staff alongside Irving.

The young mage made a desperate gesture. Immediately, all organic compounds in the room fractured into splinters. Both Enchanters felt their staves disintegrate beneath their fingers, the two wooden doors shattered like ice. The shelves in the stockroom split in two, their contents crashing to the stone floor. Irving let out a cry of pain; Greagoir found himself rooted to the stone floor. He roared in futile rage, straining against the magical paralysis. Wynne had hurried to the injured priestess, helping the wailing woman away.

Simultaneously, someone who had clearly been leaning against the now-non-existent door fell into the room. It was a slender girl with an untidy mass of dark red hair, sprawling onto her back with a half-eaten loaf of bread in her hand.

Alistair started forwards but Duncan thrust an arm forward, stopping him.

"Hold," he muttered, dark eyes focused on the desperate mage. One hand rested on the handle of a silver-etched blade, hidden within his armour.

The dazed Flora blinked up at the ceiling, clutching the loaf of bread to her chest like a bridal bouquet. Tilting her head back, she caught sight of the desperate mage; quivering in the centre of the chamber.

" _ Jowan?" _

She gaped at him as he turned desperate eyes on her, the whites a blazing scarlet. Her heart hammering against her ribs; Flora clambered awkwardly to her feet.

"What are you  _ doing _ ?!" she breathed in horror, taking in the destruction and the impotent rage of the Templar commander. She barely registered the two other men in the room, focused wholly on her panting friend. 

But Jowan was beyond entreaty; drawing from the school of forbidden magic to ward off any counterspell attempt. The air in the chamber now carried an iron-edged, metallic tang. Irving glanced around, his eyes focusing on the Tranquil.

"Owain! Stop him!"

"Irving, he's  _ defenceless! _ " began Wynne, but it was too late. Bound to obey without question, Owain moved to intercept the mage's desperate flight. Jowan raised the dagger, the Tranquil stepped forward with arms raised; the blade plunged into the Tranquil's chest with gruesome smoothness. Owain collapsed back, eyes bulging, face contorted in silent agony.

The blood mage raised the dagger once more, the vicious tip aiming for the Tranquil’s throat. Suddenly, the redheaded girl had somehow interjected herself between them, holding up her hands, wide-eyed. The two figures could not have been more contrasting: him, towering and broad as the Circle tower, her as delicate and leggy as a russet-coloured fawn.

"Stooop!" Flora bleated, her eyes the size of saucers. 

Abruptly Jowan withdrew the dagger, staring at her.

"Fiona,  _ get back! _ !" hissed Wynne, noticing that the girl had no staff. Irving groaned and shook his head.

"Foolish girl!"

Flora gaped stupidly at Jowan, who was panting before her, almost unrecognisable. The soft, doughy curves of his face had sharpened, his eyes were a tainted scarlet. His fingers tightened on the hilt of the dagger.

"Don’t do this," she pleaded, recalling a young man who had once bribed a Templar into letting her out of a cage. “Please.”

"Get out of my way, Flora," Jowan murmured, a strange, high tone to his voice. "I need to make a blood sacrifice to escape. It's the only way."

Flora shook her head desperately, clutching the loaf of bread.

"But… but!” 

"He's just a Tranquil," Jowan replied, his lip curling. "Now get  _ out _ of my way or I swear by the Maker, Flora, I will take you instead."

He raised the dagger once more, aiming the pointed tip towards her breast.

Duncan glanced sideways at the impatiently shifting Alistair and nodded; the two men prepared to move forward.

" _ Get back, Fiona!" _ hissed Wynne, as Flora held out her hands pleadingly.

"Jowan- ”

Before she could finish, the desperate man, gritting his teeth, thrust the dagger forwards. Wynne inhaled in horror, the two Wardens unsheathed their swords with a singing of metal- and then Jowan spat out a curse, the disbelief raw. 

His dagger had been turned aside, violently enough to jar his wrist. A gleaming sheath had sprung up between himself and his former friend; a shifting, white-gold barrier that seemed as thin and fragile as gossamer. Yet it had deflected his dagger with a greater, more fluid ease than the bulkiest of dragonsteel shields. 

From behind the shield, Flora scowled at him; her pale skin and irises loaned artificial warmth by the light. She had not moved a muscle, the bread roll was still clutched in her hands. As he watched, mesmerised, she went to take a bite from it.

“Stoppit,” she intoned in her flat, peasant’s cadence; as disapproving as a Chantry Mother in a brothel. “You’re breaking the  _ rules.” _

Jowan, beyond reason, tossed the dagger aside with a curse. His hands contorted; a crimson-laced surge of entropic energy raced through the air towards Flora. The deadly spell hit the barrier and dissipated like the spores of a blown dandelion, barely causing a ripple on the gilded, shifting surface. Flora gnawed on her mouthful of bread, vacant as a cow chewing cud; she had not flinched. 

The air hummed with residual energy. Wynne and Irving shared a single, open-mouthed glance of astonishment.

Jowan made a last desperate attempt to penetrate the barrier, thrusting his weight against it with a snarl. Flora, listening to the soft, reassuring whispers of her spirits, ignored him; her attention on the wounded Tranquil. The newly created maleficar gave a ragged cry of despair, recoiled from her and raised the dagger once more. Seeing Duncan moving towards him with surprising speed for a man in plate, he sunk the dagger straight through his own hand with a howl of pain. There was a surge of blackened blood from the wound and then Jowan had vanished, leaving only the stained dagger behind on the flagstones. Immediately the enchantments he had cast broke; as soon as Greagoir was able to move, he burst from the room, yelling for his subordinates.

Duncan came to a halt inches from the golden shield, his unblinking stare fixed on the girl standing behind the shimmering veil. She gazed back at him, fascinated - she had not seen many Rivaini during the narrow course of her life- the shield melting away in a cascade of heartless sparks. The Warden-Commander caught the briefest glimpse of a pale, fine boned face, dominated by grave, grey eyes and a full, curving mouth. A heartbeat later she turned away, her head tilted as though listening to a whisper in her ear.

Irving, cursing under his breath, went to Lily's side and began to launch questions at her. Wynne attempted to deflect them, still staunching the blood flow with what had been the supply order for that week.

Ignoring everyone else Flora went to kneel beside Owain, who was clutching at his chest, pale as raw milk. The upper part of his robe was saturated with blood. More spectators were gathering in the shattered doorways, huddled together in whispering groups. The significance of the puddles of blackened blood was not lost on anyone.

"I've got some poultices," started the junior Warden, his tone uncharacteristically sombre as he reached for a pouch on his belt. “Poor sod.”

He approached the injured Tranquil, avoiding the unpleasant stains on the floor. Duncan, without hesitation, shook his head and held out a hand:  _ stop.  _ His eyes, hawklike in their dark intensity, were still fixated on the girl. Alistair frowned at his commander, the poultice already in his hand.

“Ser?”

Duncan made no response, fascinated. 

“Don’t worry,” Flora was saying to the Tranquil in her soft, slightly hoarse northern cadence. “One time, back in Herring, I fixed a sailor who had a shard of driftwood THIS BIG in his chest.”

She flung out her hands, before suddenly wincing - as though receiving a reprimand. Chastened, she carefully peeled away the torn shoulder of Owain’s robe. The wound was ragged and deep, pulsing out blood in great gouts. She probed it with her fingertips, then lowered her face to it. It smelt of metal and meat, yet she did not recoil from the ugly rawness.

“I’ll mend the bone too,” Flora informed her patient, who let out an incoherent moan. “It’s a bit  _ broke _ . First, though- ”

She closed her eyes and lowered her lips directly to the bloody tear, exhaling. Near invisible particles, shimmering gold where they caught the light, tangled together and formed a gleaming mesh over the torn flesh. Moments later, the ragged muscle knitted itself together, strands of fibrous tissue curling like tendrils of steam. Owain let out a hiss and she put a blind hand on his shoulder, still face down in his wound.

"I know, I know, it stings," she mumbled. “I dunno why it sti- ”

** _Concentrate! _ ** snarled her spirits, unamused. 

_ Sorry!  _ she thought back, hastily returning her attention to the weaving of the flesh. 

Less than a minute later Flora withdrew and sat back on her heels, surveying her work with a critical eye. The ragged wound had knotted itself together, leaving a pink swathe of scar tissue. 

“Hm, it ain’t very neat,” she said through bloodied lips, a line creasing itself across her smooth, pale brow. “But I’ve not had much practice in healing  _ big  _ wounds for ages. No one gets hurt here.” 

The Tranquil stared calmly up at her, incapable of either feeling or expressing gratitude.

Meanwhile, Wynne and Irving were conversing in urgent tones; their agitation palpable in the air. 

_ “Did you know she could do that? For the love of the Maker!” _

_ “No! The girl has never shown an inkling of any talent. She’s always been a lazy little creature in class.”  _

_ “Well, we certainly don’t teach our apprentices to heal like that.” _

Flora, who wasn’t listening, reached up to wipe her bloodied mouth. Then, suddenly, the breath caught in her throat. A man, clad in patterned armour wholly unlike what the other Templars wore, was crouching before her. Although he was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and greatsword-wielding arms, he was resting on his heels with the balanced agility of a cat. There was something feline, almost predatory, about his stare too; unblinking and utterly transfixed. As she gaped dumbly back at him, he reached up to wipe the blood from her mouth in an oddly intimate gesture. Clinging to his finger were stray gold particles harvested from her lip; the Rivaini stared at them, fascinated. 

“You’re a clever girl,” he said softly, in a voice edged with admiration and something not entirely Fereldan. “Gifted indeed.”

Flora, enchanted by the novel juxtaposition of herself with the word  _ clever,  _ took an overlarge bite of bread and almost choked. 

Duncan rose to his feet and turned, ignoring the whispers of the other mages to catch the eye of his junior officer. The younger Warden knew his commander well enough to decipher the nuances of his gaze.

"She's very  _ young _ ," warned the leonine youth, hoping that his jovial tone concealed how disconcerted he was. Alistair did not know what unsettled him more: the striking delicacy of her features, or the strange, primal nature of her magic.

Duncan stifled a smile, returning his stare once again to the fox-haired girl. She had clambered upright, bloodied and totally unbothered; flashing neat, scarlet-stained teeth as she demolished nearly an entire loaf of bread.

"Only a few summers younger than you, Alistair, from the look of her.”

More mages were arriving now, along with sisters from the Chantry. They bore a sobbing Lily to the infirmary; but Owain was released after a quick inspection established that his wound was fully healed. Irving and Wynne were deep in urgent conservation, darting the occasional swift glance towards the Warden-Commander.

It was getting busier in the chamber now, and Flora - who grew nervous in crowds - decided to take her leave. Stuffing the remainder of the bread into her cheeks like a squirrel storing nuts for winter, she turned towards the doorway that she had so ignominiously fallen through earlier.

"Wait."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I didn't realise how long this chapter was going to be! I did think about breaking it up into two parts, but it all seemed to belong together. My Jowan is a padded, spoilt aristocratic who always got his way even in the Tower - but didn't count on meeting someone he actually cared about. It's actually quite tragic when you think about it... I tried to make him as sympathetic as possible, even when he ended up turning on Flora. Speaking of Flora, that's probably the least graceful way to introduce yourself to the Warden-Commander of Ferelden ever - literally falling into the room at his feet. 
> 
> Lol parts of this are so bad as I read back on them! Hopefully the bits I’ve added now in 2019 don’t clash too much with the old stuff haha


	4. Conscripted

Chapter 4: Conscripted

Flora turned around, her eyes wide and wary. Her hair had half-escaped the plump crimson braid, twisting in lazy ropes to her waist. 

“What’s your name, child?” asked the elder of the two strangers, softly. He could see that she was nervous, wholly unused to being the centre of attention. Her fingers had wound themselves in the hem of her navy tunic, twisting the fabric upwards. 

"Flor- Flora," she mumbled, dropping her eyes to the bloodstained flagstones.

"Flora…?"

"Flora of Herring, ser," she replied, deference ingrained after four years of residing at the bottom of a strictly enforced Circle hierarchy.

"It's good to meet you, Flora of Herring," said Duncan with equal solemnity, glancing over at Irving. "We need to talk. First Enchanter?"

Irving nodded wearily, suddenly feeling each one of his sixty five years weighing heavily upon him. "Of course, Warden-Commander. We'll go up to my chamber."

Twenty minutes later they had returned to Irving's fire-warmed, eccentrically decorated vestibule. From outside they could hear shouts and the splashing of water against boat hulls, as the Templars began their hunt for the escaped blood mage. Irving was sitting in a worn velvet armchair opposite Duncan, massaging his fingers into his temples. Alistair leaned against the fireplace, his amused gaze moving thoughtfully over the circular chamber..

Flora, had never been invited to Irving’s office before. She was perched on a bench at the window, peering through the leaded glass at the Templars far below; the bright pinpricks of their torches moving against the twilight. She knew that they were hunting for Jowan, and that they were not likely to show mercy when they found him. _ He was a fool, _ she thought to herself sadly. _ He broke the rules. _

Despite the fact that the conversation transpiring in the chamber was about her, Flora was only half-listening. She was brooding over Jowan's fate, miserably going over the events of that morning to see if she could have said anything differently to dissuade him from his purpose.

"She's only just passed her Harrowing," protested Irving weakly, fiddling with the First Enchanter's signet he wore around his neck "She’s not trained, she has no discipline, no proper form- ”

"Then if she can cast like that already, with no staff," Duncan said, his dark gaze boring into Irving's. "Her talent alone will suffice."

“Give us six months to train her.”

“We don’t have six months,” retorted the Rivaini, bluntly. “We’ll be lucky if we have six weeks.”

"She cannot cast offensively," warned Irving, already knowing that he had lost the argument "She has no aptitude for it.."

Alistair shrugged, interjecting cheerfully from beside the fireplace.

"When you have twenty Darkspawn charging at you, I wouldn't say no to a giant, golden shield."

Wynne turned to Flora, who still had her nose pressed up to the window. She was absentmindedly twisting a burnished ring around her little finger.

"Child, what have you to say about this?"

Flora turned around, bemused.

"Eh?"

"Warden-Commander Duncan wishes to recruit you into the Grey Wardens," said Irving carefully, raising his eyebrows. 

Duncan watched Flora's face closely, with his dark, inscrutable gaze. She looked confused, her own eyes clear as seawater as she returned his stare. No response emerged. 

"Do you even know what the Grey Wardens _ are?" _interrupted Alistair, grimacing. Flora furrowed her brow, peered out of the window for inspiration, pensive as a woman watching for the return of a lover.

"They used to ride griffons into battle," she said, suddenly recalling a story that a visitor to Herring had told years ago. 

"Why is that always the thing that people remember?" complained Alistair, as Duncan shot him a reprimanding look.

"We fight the darkspawn during a Blight," the Warden-Commander explained gravely to Flora, who peered at him with suspicious eyes through the gloom of the office. "And there's another Blight coming. We need those of your… ability..”

_ I’ve seen such natural, effortless, almost primal casting of magic before. I’ve seen life exhaled from the mouth; while the mage tilts their head to listen to the whispers coming from beyond the Fade. _

_ I’ve seen it before, back in Rivain; where spirit healers are valued, rather than ostracised. _

Flora felt as though she should have spent more time listening to her tutors rather than snacking. She wondered if news of the Blight had been brought up during some class discussion, and she had simply missed it

"You want me to join you? _ Leave _ the Circle?"

Duncan nodded, and there was silence for a moment, punctuated only by the crackling of arcane flames. He did not take his eyes from her, reluctantly admiring the meticulously sculpted features; the filaments of copper running through the mass of seldom-brushed hair.

_ What is it with me and redheaded mages in Circles? _he thought to himself, wryly. 

"But I've never been in a battle before," Flora breathed, the enormity of what Duncan was asking finally settling on her. "Why do you think_ I _ could be a Grey Warden? I don’t fight.”

"Because we have need of a shield that resists the most dangerous types of magic." Duncan stared at her, his gaze suddenly more heated than the flame boiling in the hearth. "And a healer of your skill is always valued. You could offer a great deal to our cause, which is the cause of all Ferelden. You are young, you ought to enjoy many more untroubled decades here.” 

His first thought was: _ far too young for you! _

His second was: _ and she’s a mage, all of her decades will be troubled, regardless if there’s a Blight or not. _

Flora glanced over at Irving, who looked down at his desk. The senior enchanter - the one who seemed the most worried that she had not had adequate training - was frowning; the fine lines around her eyes deepened to crevasses. 

_ The first chance I get, _ Flora thought to herself, excitedly. _ I’ll run away, back to Herring! Hahaha! _

"I'll go," she said quickly, and Irving let out an imperceptible sigh. Duncan exhaled and offered her a slow, approving smile, inclining his head.

"Wonderful. Well, I see no point in waiting around. We'll leave now. Get your things."

The obedient Flora scampered out of the room. Irving leaned back in his chair with a groan.

"I hope you know what you're doing," he said fretfully, reaching into a lower drawer of his desk for a sheet of parchment. "She's powerful, yes, but raw power untrained is a dangerous thing. Set a guard on her when she sleeps. I can’t understand how she evaded my attention all these years.”

Dipping a quill in an inkpot, he began to fill out the papers of dismissal that would formally release Flora from Kinloch Hold's keeping. An unconcerned Duncan nodded, glancing over at Alistair.

"Can you find an extra horse from the village? We'll meet you at the Kinloch docks."

"Ah, good, I'd missed the smell of manure," commented the junior Warden wryly, sauntering out of the First Enchanter's office. His blasé manner was an attempt to disguise how discomfited he was by their new recruit; who looked nothing like any girl he had ever known in passing. With the hair falling like crimson seaweed, the clear, silver-grey stare and the underwater pallor of the skin; she seemed a creature brought up from the depths of the Waking Sea in a net, like something from the old Fereldan legends. 

In the doorway Alistair paused, a grimace forming on the handsome, arrogant features as a cloud drifting over a summer sky. He turned back to Duncan, and when he spoke, the words emerged tentatively. It was clear that he did not want to openly question his mentor’s decision - especially in the presence of others.

“Will it… be alright, do you think? Bringing her to Ostagar. There’s not many other women there, apart from the Chantry sisters. And no other women in the Wardens. Will she be alright?”

The corner of Duncan’s mouth curved upwards; he had expected nothing less from his honourable young recruit. 

“That’s why you’re going to be her companion,” he replied easily, amused by Alistair’s bulging eyed reaction. “Accompany her everywhere. You’ll be the envy of the camp, I’m sure.”

“But… but- ”

“And I’ll keep an eye on her myself,” the Rivaini added, for the benefit of the frowning, white-haired senior enchanter. “Two eyes, when I can spare them. Now go on and arrange the horses, Alistair.”

Halfway down the circular staircase, Alistair bumped into Flora, who was carrying a leather bag and her staff in her arms. Despite being pink-cheeked from having run up and down the steps, there was a cold haughtiness - almost an unapproachability - to her beauty. She was the exact opposite to the friendly, round-faced and freckled girls whom he had spent his youth pining over. 

"What shade of horse do you prefer?" he asked her to cover his nerves, raising an eyebrow. She gaped at him, eyes widening. He noticed that her irises were the colour of Dalish lanterns, a glinting, opaque silver-grey.

"I have to ride a _ horse _? I can't ride a horse! Oh no! Can I walk?"

Alistair snorted. "I'm afraid the darkspawn won't have patience for that. Don't worry, I'll try and find one that's not too high off the ground."

He gave her a mock-salute and left her standing open-mouthed on the landing, his heart thudding uncomfortably fast against his ribs. 

Flora arrived back in Irving's office, out of breath and quivering with alarm at the prospect of days spent on saddleback. The First Enchanter rose to his feet, suddenly looking very tired. Duncan was already prepared to leave, his swords slung over his shoulderblades in a gleaming cross.

"Here are your dismissal papers. Show these to anyone who challenges you.”

Irving handed her a rolled up parchment as Flora approached the desk. She tucked the scroll inside the pocket of her tunic coat, clutching the plain, beginner’s staff that she'd had since she arrived at the Tower. It bore no runes nor enchantments - she was not capable of crafting them - and it had been the subject of much derision from the other students. 

Duncan tapped his foot impatiently, glancing out of the darkened window. Circle protocol dictated that a senior Templar must sign and verify all dismissal papers; with Greagoir leading the hunt for the rogue Jowan, his second in command was being located.

It took twenty minutes for the lieutenant to arrive, during which time Duncan had begun to stalk the perimeter of the study like a caged lion. Flora sat mutedly in an armchair, wearing a travelling cape from Lost Possessions, her staff across her lap. Finally, the officer arrived, the transaction was authorised and Flora was released into the custody of the Grey Wardens.

"Be careful, child," Irving warned as Duncan gestured for her to follow him. "Take care when you cast. The strength of your spells may surprise you."

Flora gaped, but could make no reply before Duncan ushered her swiftly out of the office.

"Do you have any more goodbyes to make?" the Warden-Commander threw over his shoulder as he led the way towards the stone steps. Flora shook her head, slinging the leather bag over her shoulder and the staff across it as she hurried to catch up.

"No," she panted, barely able to keep pace as he hurried down the circular stairway two steps at a time. "People here don’t like me."

"Jealous of your talent?" enquired Duncan as they continued down. 

Flora snorted, shaking her head despite the fact that he was in front of her.

"No! Because I speak common, and because I hate books. Well, I can’t read," she replied, cheerfully. “Also, I’m stupid.”

Duncan glanced at her over his shoulder, raising a dark eyebrow.

"Hm. We’ll see about that."

_ There's something familiar about this girl. I can't place my finger on it. Is it her colouring? Dark red hair, grey eyes- those cheekbones remind me of someone. Ah, well, it doesn’t matter. _

The Templars guarding the front entrance to the tower, on high alert after Jowan's escape, double and triple checked Flora's papers. When one of them suggested that they should verify the dismissal with the First Enchanter, Duncan lost his temper and bellowed at them. They were released quickly after that, the Templars glowering in their wake as they shut the vast wooden doors behind them.

As they stepped out onto the rocky outcrop, Flora paused, eyes wide. She could feel the wind on her skin, lifting her hair and rustling her clothing, the stones of the rocky beach pressed through the sturdy soles of her boots. It was the first time that she had been on solid ground in four years. Although the growing dark obscured any precise detail on the shore, she could just about see the glowing lights of a village and the shadowed outline of a Chantry. Behind her lay the Circle tower, rearing up vast and formidable from the rock like a chiding finger. All of a sudden, she felt rather frightened by the overwhelming _ vastness _of it all; her world had suddenly expanded beyond measure. 

"We'll take the ferry," said Duncan softly after a moment, watching her. "Ready to go?”

He could see the trepidation in her eyes, the quiver of her fingers as they wound themselves fretfully in her tunic. Still, Flora was a northerner and had not been raised to complain. She gave a stoic little nod, her gaze dropping to a more reassuring view of her feet. 

"Mm."

Duncan led the way down a steeply sloping path, haphazardly lit by torches. Despite his near five decades, he traversed the uneven terrain with the agility of a far younger man. Flora stumbled after him, more used to treading polished wood and flagstones worn smooth by decades of feet. Every so often he glanced over his shoulder to ensure that she was keeping up.

Eventually they reached a small dock, consisting only of a wooden jetty jutting out into the dark waters of the Lake. A single boat was tethered there, the ferryman snoring inside. Duncan nudged the man's shoulder with the toe of his boot.

"We need to cross," he said sharply, as the man awoke with a grunt, looking around blearily.

"Ah! Only just come back from takin' the other one across," he grumbled. One rheumy eye appraised Duncan for a moment, before his gaze shifted to Flora.

"Nice souvenir you picked up," he grunted, lifting the oars. "Come on then, in you get."

Duncan stepped into the boat and lowered himself onto the bench. Flora clambered in expertly behind him, as comfortable as any fisherman's daughter ought to be in. She beamed with a child’s delight; it was the first time she had set foot on a boat in four years. The Warden-Commander felt a twinge of misgiving as he shifted over so she could sit beside him on the bench.

_ She is very young. Perhaps I ought to have recruited someone more experienced. _

Then he recalled the golden shield springing from her fingertips, impenetrable even by the most potent, dangerous form of blood magic. He remembered the way her lips pressed against the Tranquil's mortal wound, exhaling energy in a way he had not seen since his youth in Rivain. 

_ That man should have died, and yet he didn't. We need that talent. _

The journey to the shore took less than fifteen minutes. Duncan sat lost in thought for the majority; his mind returning to Ostagar and the preparations being made there to resist the inevitable third assault.

_ If we travel tonight until we reach the mouth of the valley and make camp there, we can reach the fortress within a week. Then Alistair can take out the new recruits into the Wilds to prepare for their Joining. _

Flora spent the entire journey bent double over the wooden hull, trailing a hand in the lake water. Duncan scrutinised his new recruit; she made for a more pleasant view than the hoary old boatman. She was not tall; most of her height came from slender, coltish legs. Her figure was hidden by the shapeless navy tunic; she had not bothered to tie the cords that would gather the material in to define her waist. Her hands were small, the fingernails bitten, the wrists slender. 

As they reached the mainland dock, Alistair came to meet them. Once the boat was tethered, Duncan stepped out, carrying the young mage’s leather bag and staff over one shoulder. 

"Pleasant trip?" Alistair enquired, eyeing a pink-cheeked Flora. "I've procured a horse for our newest recruit."

He gestured behind him to where three patiently waiting horses were tethered to a tree. Duncan nodded, placing a hand on Flora's shoulder to guide her. 

"Let's go.”

Flora watched Duncan hoist himself effortlessly onto his steed, a large grey charger which sat placidly beneath him on the grassy slope. She assumed that the horse in the middle, which had no saddlebags or baggage, was assigned to her. A feeling of impending doom swelled within her belly; fear of such a massive creature mingled with her utter certainty that she would _ never _be able to control it. The horse appeared to be eyeballing her malevolently, as though sensing her trepidation. 

Alistair, who had one foot in a stirrup, took pity on her and lowered himself back to the damp grass.

"Here," he said kindly, clasping his hands together. "Put your foot in here, then climb up onto the saddle. That’s the most difficult bit in riding: getting _ on _in the first place.”

Flora, wondering why horses had to be so_ tall, _wedged her boot bravely into the stirrup. She then yelped as Alistair boosted her up the rest of the way. She rested precariously atop the saddle for a few moments, and then inevitably began to slide. Mouthing in alarm, she fell off the other side and landed with a thud on the grass. Duncan surveyed her in mild distress. Alistair tried, and failed, not to laugh.

"Ow,” observed a grave-faced Flora, flat on her back. “I ain’t good at this.”

Alistair let go of his horse's reins with a stern instruction to _ stay, _and moved around to haul her up.

"Alright," he said kindly, clasping his hands together. "Let's try again. On my count."

This time when he boosted her, he grabbed her leg and held her in place on the saddle.

"Here, take the reins- no, the _ reins _\- the leather strap - and hold them. Your horse should just follow ours, so don't worry about guiding it. Just focus on…not falling off."

Flora nodded, gripping onto the reins so fiercely that her fingers turned white. Alistair hastily slung her pack over the rear of the saddle and arranged her staff on her back. He found that she was less intimidating if he did not look directly at her face; focusing instead on the mundane parts of her body: such as her knee, or an elbow

With an air of showmanship, the young Warden vaulted expertly onto his own steed. To his slight disappointment, Flora was not looking; her eyes tightly shut. Duncan glanced over his shoulder, his expression hidden by the gathering dusk.

"Ready?"

Without waiting for a response, he nudged the flank of his mount with his heel and the horse moved forwards, breaking into a canter. Clinging on with one hand, Flora twisted in the saddle to gape at Alistair.

"Why is he going so fas- ”

Her horse, seeing its stable-mate disappear up the gloomy path, did not want to be left behind. It set off abruptly, ignoring the squeal of terror from its rider. Flora toppled forward helplessly, hearing Alistair yell behind her.

"_ The REINS! Grab them!" _

Flora clasped her arms around the horse's mottled neck and clung on for dear life, moaning quietly into its mane. Alistair clicked his tongue and his own horse moved forward, bringing up the rear. 

They rode at a consistent pace for several hours through the twisting hills and valleys of the Bannorn. Duncan was unwilling to spend the darkest part of the night camped in territory notorious for roaming bandits and outlaws. The Kingsway had never been constructed through this rough and hilly terrain, instead skirting the mountains to the west. Luckily, the arl of Redcliffe kept the roadways in relatively good condition, and the horses had no trouble with them.

In the early hours of the morning, they stopped at the Crossroads trading post to water the horses. Alistair disappeared among the ramshackle dwellings to find feed for their mounts; Duncan eased himself down from the saddle with a slight groan, feeling the muscles of his legs ache.

_ You are no longer a young man, _ his conscience reminded him sternly. _ You can’t ride that hard without cost. _

Returning, Alistair slung a bag of grain from his shoulder, expertly filling and fitting the feedbags to each horse's muzzle. He joined Duncan at the well, gazing out over the pastoral patchwork of fields and farmsteads.

A full moon hung overhead, low and veiled in cloud. The night seemed deceptively calm; it seemed as if nothing could disturb the peace. For several minutes, the only sound was the quiet munching of the horses.

"I left coin for the feed," Alistair commented eventually, staring out at the rolling slopes of the Hinterlands. Before them lay the hilly lowlands, inhabited only by farmers and bandits. And in the far distance, silhouetted against the twilight, the mountains were just visible.

Flora was hovering beside the horses, uncertain whether or not to join them. The Warden-Commander stepped aside, gestured for her to approach.

"See the mountains to the south, child?" He raised a gauntleted hand. Flora stepped forward and leaned against the wall, staring off in the direction of his pointed finger.

"Mm," she whispered, her eyes moving over the craggy peaks. She managed to hide her disappointment that they were not travelling _ north, _towards the Waking Sea and Herring.

"Look on the southernmost peak, where the pass is. Can you see a stone bridge?"

Flora squinted, leaning forward on the wall and peering where he was pointing.

"Is that O-Ostagar?"

"No, but it's the start of the road that leads there," commented Alistair drily, glancing sideways at her. _ For a girl who professes to be the child of peasants, she has a highborn profile. Prominent cheekbones, clear complexion, smooth forehead. I wonder if her mother had a dalliance with a local teyrn. _

_ There's something in common you've got with her, Mage and Templar differences aside. _

"How long will it take to get there?" asked Flora, staring at the shadowed outline of the bridge. Duncan glanced up at the moon, noting its position.

"We'll ride an hour more, make camp by the southern falls until morning. We should reach the pass by midday. Then it's four days ride to Ostagar."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: The distances really threw me off at first writing this - because in game, you literally go straight from the Circle Tower to Ostagar. My first draft of this chapter had them take literally a single night to travel there; then I had to go back and edit in a longer journey. Oh well, all part of the creative writing learning experience :) Poor Flora, I think she was half-expecting being taken to Ostagar in a cage like when the Templars had dragged her away from her beloved Herring. You'd better learn to ride the horse, Flora, you've got a lot of journeying coming up...
> 
> 2019 edit: lol I was so clueless when I was writing this! I kept referring to Duncan as the knight-commander haha


	5. The Journey To Ostagar

Chapter 5: The Journey to Ostagar

They rode on through the quiet stillness of the night. Alistair commented that the Darkspawn must not yet have breached the fortress defences; or the hills would have been swarming with them. Duncan grunted, brow furrowing as he envisioned the quiet farmlands and trading posts overwhelmed by the worst denizens of the Deep Roads. Flora, who had never seen a Darkspawn, had nothing to contribute to the discussion. She focused on keeping astride the horse, her fingers gradually loosening on the reins as she grew accustomed to its rolling gait. 

_ It’s like being a small boat on a rough sea, _she thought, then was so busy congratulating herself on such an apt simile that she lost focus and almost fell off. 

As they meandered down an isolated woodland path, Duncan saw brief pinpricks of light in the trees ahead, quickly extinguished. He reached behind him for his swords, feeling a surge of excitement at the prospect of a break in the monotony.

"Eyes up front.”

"Ah, and I was just thinking this journey was _ too _ calm and peaceful," muttered Alistair, drawing his own shield as the shadows of half a dozen men melded on the road ahead. "Stay alert, Flora."

“Whaaa,” said Flora, who had never seen a bandit in her life. “Whaaa?!”

Alistair ducked in the saddle an arrow whistled past him, lodging itself in a nearby tree. The near miss spooked the horses, who reared up with whinnies of panic. Duncan had already dismounted, unsheathing his twin swords with a roar of challenge. Alistair retained enough control of his horse to stay mounted, but a boggle-eyed Flora slid off the rear of the saddle, clutching at the air as she fell onto the grassy bank

"_ Kill them! Take the horses!" _

Several bandits converged on the road, a motley crew of humans and elves, dressed in cheap leathers and wielding daggers. Duncan brandished his swords, slashing with relish across a lunging bandit's face. Alistair leapt forward to cover his commander's back, carving his own sword delicately through the air to sever the jugular of an elven would-be assassin. Blood sprung out in an arterial spray, decorating the front of his silverite breastplate.

Three more bandits moved in, one wielding two cruel looking long blades, the other two with nocked bows. Duncan clashed his sword against the dualist, who crossed his blades and attempted to wrench the sword from the older man's grasp. Duncan's strength - despite his advanced years - was far superior, and the man soon fell to his knees with a grunt. Alistair thrust his shield upwards, smashing a bow out of one bandit's hands, before elbowing the second archer brutally away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another bandit draw a dagger and edge along the tree line to where Flora was still sprawled.

"Flora, I’m coming!" he yelled over his shoulder, recalling that she had no means of attack.

Flora, who had had the foresight to grab the staff before her horse bolted, clambered to her feet. As the man approached, wild eyed at the deaths of so many of his brethren, she promptly dropped the staff in terror. 

The man lunged, only to find himself hurled backwards by the rapid, billowing expansion of Flora’s shield. The tissue-thin sheath of light bore him through the air with such force that he was thrown against a nearby tree like a ragdoll. Flora, incongruously, looked equally surprised.

** _Child, _ ** murmured Flora’s spirits, reprimanding. ** _You can’t let us do everything for you._ **

_ Sorry! _

** _This is your chance to practice._ **

_ I know. _

"Huh," Alistair said, momentarily distracted as he watched the man crumple against the base of the trunk. The next moment he let out a yell of pain as an arrow sunk itself in his upper arm, a lucky shot that embedded itself within a chink in his armour. He groaned, the sword-hilt sliding from his fingers. The bandit leapt forward, discarding his bow to raise a wickedly pointed dagger.

Flora raised her hand and a shimmering barrier materialised in front of the faltering young man. The dagger was turned violently aside; the attacker yelled in pain as the shock jarred his elbow. At the same moment, Duncan's sword scythed in a gleaming arc from behind and cleaved the bandit's head from his shoulders. The dagger dropped from the dead man's hand, Flora lowered her hand and the barrier collapsed in a shower of golden sparks.

_ Better? _

** _Better. Although next time, shield him before the arrow strike._ **

_ But I wasn’t looking that way! _

** _You must always be looking._ **

"Ah, thank you," Alistair managed to comment, swaying slightly on his feet. “Bloody arrow. I knew I should have- should have worn the mail undershirt.”

Flora retrieved her staff, eyes wide, as Duncan reached forward and gripped the younger Warden by the uninjured arm to keep him upright.

"Alright, lad," the Warden-Commander murmured kindly, gesturing to Flora. "Let's get him off the road."

Between them they supported a staggering and pale Alistair, who was cursing beneath his breath, over to the grassy bank. Lowering him there, Duncan glanced at Flora. She was scowling: the chest plate had confounded her. The girl was used to peeling away torn linen or leathers, not removing heavy armour.

After a quick surveyance of the road ensured that the bandits were either dead or fled, the Warden-Commander knelt beside her. He carefully removed Alistair's chest plate, then the padded shirt beneath it. The arrow was still lodged in the flesh of his upper arm, but fortunately it was ill-made and had not pierced the bone. Duncan withdrew it with a careful twist, while Alistair let out a particularly colourful string of curses involving the Maker.

Flora lowered her face to his arm and closed her eyes, parting her lips in preparation

"Never had a girl's mouth so near my half-naked body before," quipped Alistair, unable to resist. Flora opened her eyes and scowled at him. Duncan let out a small sigh.

"Alistair, there is a time and place for humour. This is not it."

"It was _ because _of her that I got hit in the first place," Alistair whined. "Flinging men through the air like straw dolls. Made me lose concentration!"

Flora's eyes widened in indignation, she turned to Duncan as the nearest ‘grown’ adult.

"Flora, focus on healing. Alistair, be quiet or we'll leave you here to make your own way back to Ostagar," interjected Duncan wryly, reminded yet again how young both of them were. 

Flora shot Alistair a look of reprimand, before placing her hand on his shoulder to brace herself as she leaned down.

"Like what you feel?" murmured Alistair, snidely. This time Flora ignored him, lowering her mouth to his wound. Parting her lips and closing her eyes, she breathed out slowly; throat prickling as magic manifested within. The simple act of exhalation calmed her and focused her on the act; near invisible golden mist drifted from her mouth to his wound. Alistair could feel the gentle warmth of her breath easing the dull throb of pain. The torn flesh began to knit together, red fibrous strands of muscle weaving around each other as the flesh reformed.

As one who had once been in training to become a Templar, designed to hunt down and kill mages in the wild; Alistair should have felt nervous at the proximity of one who wielded such potent arcane ability. Yet as he looked down at the top of her head, her dark red hair gathered in a hasty braid, he felt no discomfort. Save for the discomfort of the healing itself but he was prepared for that; it was not the first time he had required mending in the field. He noticed how small and curved her ear was, pink in the inside like a seashell. There was a leaf caught in a few stray strands of oxblood hair; he fought the urge to remove it. 

Flora blinked, surveying her handiwork. The wound had knitted over neatly, a pale pink patch of new skin the only remaining sign of the injury. She sat back on her heels as both Duncan and Alistair bent their heads to inspect the younger Warden's upper arm.

"Maker's Breath," exhaled Alistair, eyebrows rising into his hairline as he probed the skin tentatively with his fingertips. "That's a clean heal."

"Cleanest I've ever seen," agreed Duncan, a half-smile hidden in his greying beard. "You clever girl."

The Warden-Commander noticed that she sat up a little straighter when he praised her; her eyes turned hopefully in his direction. There were smudges of shadow beneath the cloud-grey irises. Duncan noticed her yawning as Alistair pulled his padded shirt back over his head.

"Is it tiring?"

"I ain’t - I’m not used to showing off my magic so much," she replied, her fingers hiding another yawn. “I barely used it in the Circle. Didn’t have no reason to.0

"Magic is a muscle; the more you use it, the stronger it’ll get, and the less weary you’ll be," Duncan replied, casting his gaze on their surroundings. "We're almost at the mouth of the valley. We'll make camp there."

Alistair managed to find his and Duncan's horses, but Flora's had bolted beyond the scope of his search. He found her leather bag in the undergrowth, which she clasped gratefully to her breast.

"Are those magic books in there?" he asked as he boosted her up to sit behind Duncan on the saddle. She shook her head, yawning, but did not elaborate.

They rode on for another candle-length, untroubled by bandits or other travellers. Eventually the path steepened and began to follow a rocky ridge, leading up into the foothills. Alistair rode ahead, half wishing to bump into more bandits whom he could take his annoyance out on. Flora, after sliding promptly off the back of Duncan’s saddle, had been transferred to sit before him. Leaning against his chest, she had fallen asleep with the swiftness of a very young child; her cheek pillowed against her palm. 

The sound of a waterfall grew louder as they approached. With water rushing over the rock above their heads, they followed a side path into a small clearing. It was obscure and easily defensible with only a single entrance point, concealed from the main pathway.

Alistair climbed down from his horse and began to set up camp, inwardly marvelling at the lack of soreness from his wounded arm. Efficient from repeated practise, he had set up the bedrolls and a campfire in the time that it took Duncan to scrawl a few words on a narrow sliver of parchment. He did so while still in the saddle, oddly reluctant to disturb his new recruit as she slept. Having sent the message off with one of the ravens who kept constant vigilance in the skies overhead, he nodded to Alistair.

"Help her. She's had a long day."

"Haven't we all," replied his junior officer dryly, reaching up to steady a yawning Flora as she off the horse. "Whoa, whoa. A _ controlled _ fall; that's an improvement."

Flora mumbled something incoherent, head hanging as she almost lost her balance. He picked her up inelegantly in his arms, balancing her staff gently on her face. 

_ She does have freckles, _ Alistair noticed, irrationally. _ They’re just very faint; scattered over her nose like flecks of Antivan tea. _

"Right, bedtime." 

He lowered her unceremoniously onto one of the bedrolls and placed the staff alongside her slumped body. On second thoughts - the Templar training still ingrained - he moved the staff to the other side of the fire. 

Flora muttered something unintelligible, the back of her hand flung across her face. Duncan came to sit beside the fire with a muffled sigh; Alistair took out some cloth-wrapped meat from his pack and sniffed it, before dropping it into a rusted skillet pan.

"So will we go out recruiting again once we drop her off at Ostagar?" asked the junior Warden after a moment, adjusting the angle of the pan. Duncan glanced over at the sleeping Flora, the firelight catching the dark red of her hair and lighting it like a mass of embers. Slumped on the bedroll she looked like a doll, tossed onto the ground by some petulant child.

"She must have the aid of powerful spirits.” Duncan thought out loud, recalling the Rivaini spirit healers he had known as a youth. “And no, we won’t have time to go recruiting again."

Alistair raised his eyebrows, shuffled the pan as the meat hissed and spat. Cooking was the junior officer’s responsibility; the senior’s sense of smell and taste had long since been dulled by the taint that encroached deep into his flesh. On more than one occasion recently, Duncan had inadvertently eaten meat raw; finding it oddly inoffensive. From somewhere in the woods below them, an owl gave a mournful hoot.

"You think the third assault will come soon, then?"

Duncan nodded, running his fingers through his grey-shot beard. "I can feel them massing again. I pray we’ve gathered enough numbers."

Alistair cast his mind over several that they had recruited over the past week. _ A petty thief who had joined the Wardens as an alternative to a prison. A member of the gentry, who felt obligated to defend his hometown from the Darkspawn. And the young mage, useless offensively but an exceptionally talented healer. _

"Are you going to make her undertake the Joining immediately?" he asked, impaling the burnt meat with a small knife and dropping it on a dented tin plate. Duncan nodded, and they both glanced over at Flora. She had rolled off the bedroll and onto her belly, sleeping facedown in the damp grass.

"Flora must become a Warden or she will be viewed as an apostate," Duncan said, eyeing him. "And your former brethren will hunt her down, for the crime of being born with a remarkable gift.”

The older man raised an eyebrow at his junior, popping a chunk of meat into his mouth. As usual; he could taste nothing, feeling only the texture of the sinew against his teeth.

"I didn't make the rules,” Alistair replied, his Chantry heritage ingrained deeply. "If it were up to you, the Circles would be dissolved and their ranks would swell the Grey Wardens. Imagine the damage that could do, all that uncontrolled magic!”

"Imagine the damage one thousand mages could do to the Darkspawn," countered Duncan calmly.

Flora sat up with a yawn, the smell of roasting meat overcoming her fatigue.

"What are you cooking?" she asked, shuffling closer to the fire and eyeing the saucepan greedily. Despite the stockpile of goods in her bag, the cooked meat had an irresistible allure. Alistair sawed off another chunk.

"Roast goat," he said, tossing it to her. "Sorry if it's not up to your Circle standards.”

"For the love of the Maker, I'll return you to the monastery," interjected Duncan, who was suddenly feeling very weary.

The hunk of meat fell between Flora’s flailing hands. She retrieved it, taking a hungry bite before responding.

"Us initiates got bread and pottage," she explained earnestly. through a mouthful of meat. "Goat would have been a _ treat _in the Tower."

Two hours passed. Alistair slept on the bedroll adjacent to Flora, his feet beside her head. His quiet snores lent a familiarity to the darkness. Duncan, who needed little sleep, kept watch for the majority of the night. leaned against the trunk of a tree and let his thoughts wander. Faces materialised in his mind, so clear it was as if their owners stood before him in the gloom.

_ Ferelden's young King, the reckless and daring Cailan, eagerly planning his advance against the Darkspawn. Then the First Enchanter and his Templar counterpart Greagoir, so reluctant to offer assistance, not believing that they would be so unfortunate as to have a Blight in their lifetime. Loghain, the king's father in law and the commander of his army, the pragmatic voice of reality to balance the King's optimism. He doesn’t believe there’s a Blight, either. _

_ Alistair, so eager to prove himself. Desperate to show his worth, whilst simultaneously doubting it. Still, his bravery comes second to none. Too honourable to be a Grey Warden, really. We don’t attract the moral upstanding of society. _

_ And my newest acquisition, with that raw, potent, primal magic. _

Flora's face appeared before him, full-lipped and solemn-eyed; her brow smooth and pale. Duncan allowed himself a few moments to appreciate her beauty - there was precious little of it in his life - then recalled Irving's words about the dangers of possession. Leaning forward, he peered past the dying embers and squinted at the girl. She was sound asleep, her breathing even and shallow, her complexion normal.

When Duncan woke Alistair after another hour, he gestured quietly towards the sleeping mage.

"I trust you recognise the signs," he said quietly, referencing Alistair's years in the Chantry. Alistair nodded sombrely; all Templars were trained to identify the symptoms that a mage was becoming an abomination during sleep. _ Skin flushed, erratic breathing and spasms. The bone-white iris. _

"There's not much danger of that though, right?" the junior Warden asked in an undertone. "I mean, she's passed her Harrowing."

"That may be, but she’s vulnerable when asleep. Remember, she’s not been trained."

Alistair frowned, leaning forward on an elbow as Duncan settled down on his own bedroll. Flora’s haughty, unapproachable face was softened by sleep; her mouth partly open and her hair falling dishevelled across her eyes.

"Try to resist being possessed by demons while you're in the Fade," the young man said softly, as he unsheathed his sword and rested it beside him. "I'd feel bad if I had to kill someone with your talent."

As the sun began to warm the edge of the horizon, Flora yawned, blinked and slowly returned to consciousness. She noticed that her bunk felt strange – _ had she fallen asleep in the kitchens again? _ \- then put out a curious hand and felt _ grass _ beneath her palm _ . _

Her eyes shot open. There were trees above her instead of a vaulted stone ceiling, the light came from the rising sun rather than from candles. And approaching her across the campfire was a young man in armour, unsheathed sword in hand.

Flora, in a panic, grabbed the cold skillet from the remnants of the fire and scrambled to her feet, wielding the utensil in front of her.

"Stay back!" she croaked, still half-asleep, backing away from him until she felt a tree trunk pressed against her back.

Alistair dropped his sword on the grass and held up his hands, eyebrows rising and a grin forming.

"Flora, it's just me."

Duncan, roused by the noise, sat up with a grimace. He had slept perhaps an hour; his dreams plagued with insidious whispers. 

Flora blinked, the situation slowly clarifying itself. She lowered the skillet, confused.

"Oh," she said after a moment, as she took in Duncan and the horses grazing nearby. "I thought…I was an apostate. And you were a Templar coming to kill me."

Alistair shook his head, sheathing his sword.

"I heard something in the trees. Went to investigate. Turned out it was just a nug. You're half-right thought, I was once a Templar. Well, almost."

Crushing the last embers of the fire with his boot, he eyed her with an incredulous laugh.

"You're a mage, and you're defending yourself with a _ frying pan?!" _

Flora glanced at the skillet in her hand and slowly went pink. 

The Warden-Commander gave a quiet cough, and both junior warden and the uninitiated turned to him. Duncan raised his finger towards the mountains, where the bridge to the south stretched between two opposing peaks.

"We'll take the mountain path," he said, reaching down to retrieve his bedroll.

Clearing the camp took scant time, and before long they were back on the horses, following the twisting gravelled path that clung to the side of the mountain. The sun crept higher in a cloudless sky, the air cool and crisp. As they climbed, a stiff breeze began to pick up alongside them. Far below, the Hinterlands were spread out like a patchwork of fields, farmsteads and trees.

Flora, perched before Duncan in the saddle, felt her stomach protest loudly at the lack of breakfast.

"Alistair, do you have any food?" Duncan called over his shoulder, prompting the junior Warden to scavenge in his pack.

"I think so- one moment. Here!"

Flora's hunger overrode her embarrassment and she turned around, just as Alistair sent a bread roll hurtling through the air in her direction. Making a wild grab, she almost slid off the saddle; just about managing to snatch it mid-flight.

"Thanks," she mumbled, her mouth full. "Want some?"

Duncan shook his head, half-smiling.

"Have it, child. You'll need your strength."

Flora swallowed a wedge of bread painfully, having almost forgotten about the 'Joining' ritual that was coming later. Neither Duncan nor Alistair had mentioned any details about the ritual itself, which disconcerted her.

_ Still, _ she mused as she chewed a mouthful of bread thoughtfully. _ It can't be as bad as the Harrowing. If it's a ritual that everyone has to complete, it can't involve entering the Fade. _

They continued on, climbing higher into the mountains as the sun ascended the sky behind them. Its light was diluted through a thick veil of grey cloud, casting the countryside into gloom. At one point it began to rain, a thin and continuous drizzle.

They journeyed south, passing through unremarkable terrain, consisting mostly of farmland. They were following the course of the river, which cut a meandering path through the rugged landscape of the Hinterlands. After two days they stopped at an anonymous hamlet to restock supplies; Duncan made a final vain attempt to look for recruits but found no one suitable.

Just the sun began to rise on the fourth day of their journey, Duncan pointed out the dark silhouette of Ostagar, the Tevinter fortress that straddled the valley ahead.

"We're here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2019 edit - lol, I find it funny that back when I wrote this in 2016, I covered a long journey in a single chapter! Nowadays I’d have a single meeting in a chapter :P 
> 
> OOC author note: I wanted to show off Flora’s healing and shielding, and introduce the idea of the campfire scene! Lots of those coming up!


	6. Ostagar

As they approached the ancient Tevinter fortress, it became apparent that it was anything but deserted. A unit of soldiers bearing bright livery joined them on the main approach, their captain greeting Duncan with a wary respect. Flora could see the same symbol that Duncan wore on his breastplate – a silver griffon – displayed on a banner hanging over the fortress wall. Beside it was a colourful scarlet and gold heraldry that she didn't recognise. Both were waterlogged and tattered from the constant cruel tug of the valley winds.

"That's the King's emblem," pointed out Alistair, following Flora's stare as he drew alongside them. "The symbol of the Theirins. Cailan arrived a few weeks ago to join the third assault on the Darkspawn."

Although his tone was neutral, it was clear from Alistair's face that he thought the King mad. Flora glanced at him curiously, then was distracted by the great entrance gate before them. Two men clad in the garb of the Grey Wardens came out and saluted Duncan, while accompanying servants caught hold of the horses' reins.

"News?" Duncan asked curtly, dropping down from the saddle with a grunt and nodding to the stable lad.

"The Darkspawn are massing. The scouts believe that they'll make an assault within the week. Both Loghain and Cailan wish to see you immediately, as does the leader of the mages."

Duncan sighed, raising his eyes to the heavens as Flora clambered down gingerly from the saddle. She slung her staff over her back, glancing up at the crumbling stone battlements with awe. After four years of confinement in the Circle tower, the sheer _ scale _of the outside world was still a novelty.

"Ah, I suppose I'd better see Cailan first, since royalty _ must _insist on taking precedent."

Duncan let out an almost inaudible sigh, turning to his junior officer. Alistair had dismounted and was already waiting for instruction. "Could you see to the mages? They're complaining again"

Alistair nodded, lifting a hand. "Of course. They're probably just out of frogs' legs." 

“Don’t be long,” the Warden-Commander added, casting a swift, significant glance sideways at Flora. Their newest recruit was already attracting attention; the stable lad had dropped Duncan’s saddlebag in the mud on seeing her; the gate guards were taking an inordinately long time with the drawbridge. Flora, oblivious, was staring into space. 

Alistair nodded, grasping his commander’s meaning. Shouldering his bag, he headed off purposefully towards an upper terrace. .

Duncan glanced around at Flora, who was now looking anxious, clutching the straps of her leather pack.

"Come on, child,” he said, softly. “I’ll take you to meet the other recruits.”

It had begun to drizzle again. Ostagar, in its prime, had been an impenetrable fortress hewn from opposing cliffs, connected by a jutting spur of rock. Many Ages later, much of it had decayed through lack of maintenance. Great chunks had broken off, tumbling to the valley floor lying far below. Now only a single broken tower - named Ishal, after its architect - rose above a maze like tangle of courtyards and terraces, spread over a half-dozen levels and connected by decrepit steps.

The tents clustered around the crumbling walls of the largest courtyard were saturated from an earlier shower; their canvas canopies bowed beneath pools of water. There were men everywhere; soldiers in Royal livery, Grey Wardens deep in conversation, and various servants, stewards, squires and grooms scuttling in their wake. There was a constant low hum of activity, punctuated by the throaty barking of dogs. The atmosphere was as tense as a taut bowstring.

Flora clutched her scant possessions, damp hair plastered to her forehead as she avoided the larger puddles. Duncan strode a few paces ahead; those in his way scattered before him with mild panic. The Warden-Commander had a fearsome reputation, and was _ Rivaini _to boot - a land of heretics and mage-lovers. Every so often, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure that she had not been left behind. 

"And the Maker will watch over us _ all, _ be they man or woman, Warden or soldier, conscript or volunteer!" intoned a Chantry priestess on a nearby scaffold, not seeming to notice the rainwater streaming down her white headpiece. She held out her arms, tilting her face upwards, emulating the pose of the Andraste statue immediately behind her.

"Send these foul creatures back to the hell from whence they came!" she continued, as a band of bedraggled faithful clustered together before her. "Vanquish them from the Maker's eyes, for He sees them and does _ not approve _!"

This last part seemed to have been directed at Duncan, who snorted and continued onwards. The Chantry sister turned her gaze towards Flora; her scowl deepening as she noticed the staff slung across her back. 

Warden-Commander and recruit continued onwards, entering yet another courtyard beneath a stone archway. A series of pens had been constructed around a precariously decrepit pillar, each containing a Mabari war hound. Two handlers were hurling slabs of raw meat over the high fences, while the eager dogs bayed and howled.

Just beyond the cages was a crumbling stone ramp leading to an upper courtyard, guarded by a half-dozen pikemen in scarlet and gold livery. Flora approached them curiously, squinting through the gloom at the brightly coloured tents clustered beyond. In contrast to the overcast gloom in the lower courtyard, the upper reaches rung with the sound of laughter and chatter, and even the thin warble of song.

What attracted Flora was neither the blazing torchlight nor the raucous banter, but the smell of smoked salmon. It had been months since she had last eaten fish. She took a longing step towards the foot of the ramp. The guards stood up a little straighter as she approached, not bothering to disguise their admiration as they looked her up and down. However, once their eyes fell on her staff, all friendliness vanished from their posture.

"What do you want, mage?" spoke up one soldier warily as she approached. Flora came to a halt, removing drizzle-dampened strands of hair from her eyes.

“Who’s up there?” 

The guard who had spoken shot her an incredulous look.

"Who do you think, fool?" he retorted, rudely. "Look, there!"

He gestured to the scarlet and gold banners flanking the ramp. Flora peered at them, oblivious.

"Ah, she's probably fresh out of a Tower," spoke the other soldier, who had a daughter the same age as the bedraggled young mage and was more disposed to kindness. "This is King Cailan's camp. You're not allowed to enter."

"Ooh," mumbled Flora, taking a last wistful inhalation of salmon before turning around. She then almost collided with Duncan, who had backtracked hastily on finding her absent. 

“Stay close to me, young sister,” he told her, shooting the guard who had named her a fool a displeased glower. “i don’t want to lose you.”

The rain was starting to ease, the clouds slowly drawing back to reveal a watery autumnal sun. Flora made no attempt to avoid the shallow puddles as they approached a walled-in courtyard. She could feel the hum of arcane energy vibrating in the air even before she saw the clouds of excess mana hovering above the crumbling walls. The other occupants of Ostagar seemed to be giving the mages a wide berth. Peering through the arched entrance, she saw a half-dozen men and women in the familiar formation of a summoning circle. Beside the wall, she saw Alistair in the middle of an argument with a middle-aged mage in scarlet robes. Duncan, seeing his junior officer engaged in vociferous debate, stifled a sigh.

"What else do the Grey Wardens ask of me?!" the older man was demanding, arms folded across his chest. "Is it not enough that I have interrupted my studies to assist them?"

Alistair nodded placatingly, his clear hazel eyes widening. "I'm simply here to pass on a message from the Chantry Mother. Apparently she wishes to see you."

This was apparently enough to incense the mage, who threw up his arms in frustration. "Again! I am not at her beck and call. There is important work to be done here."

Alistair gave a shrug, shifting from foot to foot. "Should I have had her write a note?" he asked, in a tone of polite insolence. “Mother Rohesia doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

The mage growled beneath his breath, muttered something vaguely insulting and stalked off towards the terrace acting as a makeshift Chantry, brushing roughly past Flora as he did so.

"And I thought we were getting on so well!" called Alistair at the departing man's broad back, then rolled his eyes at Flora. "I do love how a Blight brings us all together.”

“I wish you wouldn’t waste your considerable energy on petty squabbling, Alistair,” Duncan observed dryly, though the corner of his mouth was flickering. “Take Flora to the recruits’ tent to drop off her bag, then prepare for the Wilds.”

The reason for the Warden-Commander’s amusement quickly became apparent. A man, lean and scowling, had just made his presence known with an irritable grunt. He had a sallow, weathered face, the features carved from granite; and dark hair, faded as though exposed to too much sunlight. He wore no livery or identifying emblem; his armour built for efficiency of movement rather than the aesthetic.

“The king grows impatient, Rivaini,” snarled the new arrival, ignoring Alistair entirely. “You were meant to come to his tent as soon as you arrived.”

“Let’s hope Cailan is in a forgiving mood, general,” replied Duncan, appearing supremely unbothered. “I had to escort my newest recruit here.”

Loghain Mac Tir glanced casually across at Flora, expecting that she would deserve only a fraction of his attention. Instead, he startled; coal-dark eyes widening and then narrowing to focused pinpricks.

“What’s her name?” he snapped, appearing uncharacteristically disconcerted. 

“Flora,” Duncan said, watching the general closely. 

“No family name?”

The Warden-Commander shook his head very slowly from side to side,a quizzical brow raising. Meanwhile Flora, enchanted to hear another northern accent, gazed at the general with her mouth slightly open. When he returned her interest with a malevolent glare, this made her only more nostalgic for the north; whose inhabitants were far less genial than their southern counterparts. 

Duncan, sensing that Loghain was not prepared to elaborate on the cause of his astonishment, turned to Alistair.

“Try not to get into any more arguments on the way to the recruits’ tent, my young friend.”

“No promises!” remarked Alistair, cheerfully. “Come on, mage - I mean, Flora. Sorry, old habits die hard.”

Without pausing, the junior officer strode past Flora, underneath the crumbling archway and back into the main bustle of the camp. Expecting her to keep pace, he neatly evaded a gaggle of Chantry sisters and a pack of Mabari, baying at the heels of their handler. Flora followed him down a flight of moss-covered steps, then skirted the edge of a terrace studded with plinths; which once must have held statues of the great and the glorious. Now they served as improvised seats for weary soldiers, or surfaces upon which to rest a sword or a tankard. 

_ This place is like a tangle of salt-crusted fishing line _ , Flora thought dolefully to herself, struggling to keep up with the long-legged young man. _ Impossible to make sense of. _

Alistair, determined to hide how disconcerted he felt around her, deliberately maintained a hasty pace all the way to the Warden encampment; which sprawled in chaotic array on a lower terrace. The recruits’ tent was plain and lacking in finery, a contrast to the garishly ornate tents belonging to the king's retainer. Alistair ducked inside, only just remembering to hold open the flap for her. Flora followed him, slightly out of breath.

Inside was sparsely decorated, with three pairs of bunk beds, plain and functional, set out parallel to each other. In one corner was a communal pile of baggage. Two men sat on opposite bunks, each studiously avoiding the gaze of the other. One was clad in the worn leathers of a commoner, unshaven and clearly uneasy. The other man had a paunch that indicated two decades of good food and better wine. In contrast to the other, his bulk was encased in fine fustian velvet. He looked faintly nauseous, as if he had eaten something that had disagreed with his digestion.

"Flora, Daveth, Ser Jory," said Alistair, not being much good at introductions. "We'll be going into the Korcari Wilds soon, get the first part of the joining ritual out of the way. Ready to meet your first Darkspawn?"

"The Korcari Wilds?" asked Ser Jory, scratching anxiously at the plump folds of his neck. "I heard they were meant to be haunted."

Flora, uncertain whether her shield could keep out the ephemeral, looked bug-eyed.

"Lots of unpleasant things in the Wilds, but I've never seen a ghost," replied Alistair pleasantly, lifting Flora's pack from her shoulder and slinging it gracelessly into the communal pile of baggage.

"I'd rather not meet a Darkspawn at all," muttered Daveth, who was looking more mutinous by the minute.

"You'll be seeing a lot more of them if we don't do our job right." Alistair gave a half-grin, heading back to the tent entrance. “Right - no point in hanging around. Ready to venture into the Wilds?”

"Are we going to have something to eat first?" asked Flora hopefully. “In the Circle, we always had lunch at noon.”

There was silence in the tent for a moment, with both of the other recruits staring at her incredulously. Alistair let out a snort, shaking his head.

"Sure, can't fight on an empty stomach. Kitchens are near the Chantry. Grab a snack, and we'll meet by the Tower in twenty minutes."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2019 edit - Oof, proof that I literally never bothered editing anything when I first published this in 2016! The previous version had them arriving at Ostagar in the evening, and then going straight out into the Wilds lol.


	7. Into The Wilds

As the sun reached its apex in a sallow. colourless sky, the new recruits gathered at the foot of the Tower of Ishal. The old structure reared a hundred feet in the air, and was remarkably intact for its age; testament to Tevinter engineering ingenuity. The morning drizzle had stopped, but a chill breeze had crept up from the mountain valley below, roaming joyfully through the terraces and pillar-lined colonnades. 

Ser Jory, who had strapped an expensive-looking breastplate over his fustian doublet, was clutching a bow. The curved length of willow was trembling in his sweaty-palmed grip. Despite the cold, red and blotchy patches had sprung up on his throat.

"Have either of you ever seen a Darkspawn before?" he asked after a moment, swallowing and checking for the hundredth time that his quiver was still slung over his back. Daveth, hard-built and lean as a blade, sporting no armour save for his leathers, was silently cleaning a wicked looking knife. At the noble's question he shook his head, grim-faced.

"Nah.”

Ser Jory turned to Flora, who was sitting on a low stone wall and finishing off a pear. She mumbled a denial, her mouth full. Ser Jory’s tongue flickered nervously over his lips. 

"I've seen one before, brought into the city as a captive. Monstrous, mindless creatures. Their blood is poison and spreads the Blight. If you get any on you, it'll turn you into a monster too. That's if they don't eat you alive first."

Flora pulled a face, swallowing the last bite of her pear with a hard gulp. Ser Jory's eyes fell on the length of wood slung across her back.

"What kind of mage are you?" he asked, clinging to hope. “A pyromancer?”

“What’s that?”

The noble stared at her in minor disbelief.

“A fire mage,” he said at last, incredulous. “Don’t they teach you about the different schools of magic at the Circle?”

Flora, who had been removed from her classes due to both a lack of literacy and ability, gave a half-hearted shrug.

“Ain’t one of them.” 

“A cryomancer, then?”

She shook her head. “Nooo.” 

“What _ can _you do?”

“Shield things,” Flora replied, with her usual scant eloquence. “Heal things.”

At this welcoming news Ser Jory looked a fraction calmer, his pudding-like face regaining a modicum of colour as the door behind them swung open.

"Ready to head to the stables?”

Alistair appeared at the base of the tower, squinting at the sudden emergence into daylight. He had changed into sturdier armour, his breastplate engraved with an argent griffon. A freshly polished shield was hung across his shoulders; beneath the coat of varnish, the metal was heavily dented and scarred. 

Nobody looked keen: Ser Jory seemed about to be sick; Daveth ready to make a run for it; Flora had paled at the prospect of _ more riding. _

Horses were retrieved from the makeshift stables, fitted with saddles and bridles by sullen-faced grooms. Since Flora had fallen off three times before they even reached the outer drawbridge, Alistair very reluctantly permitted her to share his saddle. He then shuffled back several inches to create a gap between her back and his breastplate. Flora assumed that it was because she was a mage, yet this was only partially true. The young officer doubted that his heart had returned to its normal rhythm since he had first set eyes on her. He was both disconcerted and annoyed; she was a _ distraction _and not even a competent spellcaster!

They followed a small winding path that gradually made its way out of the valley; the steep crags yielding to sloping foothills around them. Ahead lay grey-brown marshland, dotted with the occasional clump of trees, huddled together for protection. Few made their home within the Korcari Wilds, where the wolves and the Darkspawn competed for territory with other, older creatures that dwelt within the swamp.

Ser Jory had kept up a near-continuous flow of nervous chatter, his voice gradually creeping up in pitch as they neared the border of the Wilds. They learnt of his pregnant wife, of the house he had just purchased, and of the tournament that he had won which first brought him to Duncan's attention.

At one point, while they were waiting for a ferryman to carry them across the Silvern river, Jory eyed Alistair curiously.

"You mentioned you were from Redcliffe? I was recently in service there to Arl Eamon."

Alistair nodded, then peered across to the far side of the water, where the raft was preparing to make the return journey after carrying Daveth over. He did not trust the Denerim thief, half-expecting him to dart off into the wilderness. Yet Daveth remained on the opposite shore, glancing warily over his shoulder. 

"I was raised by the arl as a child,” he said, not choosing to elaborate. “Left a decade ago, though, and haven’t been back since.”

Jory appraised Alistair's strong jawline and green-flecked hazel eyes, brow furrowing.

"Ah, I remember - just. Rumour was that you were Eamon's natural son, but you’ve not got the look of him. No, you've more the look of- “

“Here’s the ferry,” the young Warden interjected, abruptly cutting the nobleman off. “You go across next, then we’ll join you. If Daveth tries to escape, you’ve got my permission to knock him off his horse.”

For the next hour, Ser Jory brooded in silence. His was a more anxious and sweaty quiet than Daveth's, who had not said a single word since they had left Ostagar. Flora's attention was divided between staying on the saddle and gazing in awe at the low foothills around them, as though they were the Frostbacks themselves. Although she had not been trapped in the Circle tower for a lifetime, as some mages had; four years was a lengthy time for one to be shut indoors. 

Finally, wishing to break the shroud of silence, Ser Jory tugged at his horse’s reins, dropping back to ride alongside Alistair and Flora. He eyed Flora, appreciative of her beauty despite doubting whether there was a brain lodged within that exquisitely shaped skull.

"I didn't know girls could be Grey Wardens,” he said, overly hearty. “There aren’t many women at Ostagar.” 

Flora, who had vaguely noticed the dearth of women, gave an ambivalent shrug. 

“Mm.”

"I assure you, Darkspawn don't have a preference about who they're killed by," interjected Alistair, despite knowing that Flora was very unlikely to be killing _ anything _during their expedition into the Wilds. 

Jory scowled, drawing his horse close and leaning towards Flora. She eyed the sweating noble, curiously.

"I don't like him," he muttered to her, fleshy chin quivering in indignation. "Just a lad, and he's in charge of us…? I thought at least the Warden-Commander himself would be taking us out."

Flora tilted her head to follow the progress of a flight of swallows. Although her hair was starting to unwrap itself from its hastily tied braid, she did not dare to remove a hand from the pommel of the saddle in order to tuck it back into place.

"Eh, he's probably busy," she mumbled, used to going unnoticed by those in charge. Until her Harrowing, the First Enchanter had barely been aware of her existence. Jory wrinkled his lip, not satisfied with this answer. He looked her up and down again with a slight frown, noting the finely cut cheekbones and the unruly abundance of thick, dark red hair.

"Where are you from?" he asked, curiously. "You’ve got a northerner’s colouring."

“Herring,” Flora replied, perking up. She hoped that Jory would enquire further, giving her a chance to heap praise upon her beloved home. Unfortunately, Jory had never heard of the tiny fishing village and, believing that she was making fun of him, fell into a petulant silence. 

They continued to ride deeper into the marshland, while increasing masses of grey cloud gathered overhead. Warning signs were posted at frequent intervals, indicating that danger of various sorts lay ahead. They saw no other travellers, indeed, there was very little sign of life in general. The swamp was devoid of the usual signs of life: no crickets ground away from the grasses, no frogs croaked in chorus. Even the birdsong was scant and mournful.

Finally, Alistair drew them to a halt beside a broken stone pillar, standing like an ancient sentinel beside the road. It appeared to mark an old boundary of some sort. He gave the area behind a cursory glance, then gestured for the three initiates to gather around.

"So, the first part of the ritual involves collecting a vial of Darkspawn blood," he began, retrieving a handful of glass phials from his saddlebag. He showed them swiftly to the initiates, with the practised efficiency of one who had been through this process many times.

Jory swallowed, darting a nervous look at his companions from the tail of his eye. The scrawny Daveth was watching Alistair, tight-lipped, his fingers convulsively clutching the hilt of his blade. Flora, meanwhile, was fiddling with her braid, uncertain whether to keep it down or pin it around her head like a lobster-pot. 

"So, we have to kill a Darkspawn," the man from Denerim spoke up for the first time since they had left Ostagar, his voice low and contemptuous. "Even though we've not been trained. That’s suicide.” 

"Ordinary Darkspawn'll die with a blade stuck in them, just like anything else," retorted Alistair, dropping down from the saddle and retrieving his shield from the strapping. "I'll help out where I can, and we do have a mage with us."

The young officer glanced up quickly at Flora, who was gloomily contemplating the distance between herself and the ground. He reached up to steady her as she half-slid, half-fell off the saddle; then withdrew his arm so quickly that she almost went face-first in the mud. 

"Aye, one who can't so much as light a candle!" sneered Daveth, who had overheard Flora's admission at the foot of the Tower of Ishal. “What use is a mage who can’t summon a flame?”

Alistair sighed under his breath, checking the keenness of his blade before sheathing it.

"Let's all just try and get along," he intoned, tying the reins around the remains of the pillar. "Come on, tie up your horses. If you survive, you won't want to be walking home."

They headed into the lowlands, with Alistair leading the way. The junior Warden walked with confidence, despite there being no discernible path through the swampy marshes. The water that pooled here was stagnant, the trees withered and malnourished. Every so often, a pale and sickly plant clung to life on the riverbank. The air had a foul, oily residue that coated the lungs with each inhalation: 

"There’s a Darkspawn camp on the other side of those trees,” Alistair murmured in an undertone as they reached a narrow stream, holding up a hand to halt the party. "Daveth, could you go and see how many there are? No sense in charging into a full nest."

The slender man shot Alistair a look brimming with resentment, but did as instructed. With a barely discernible tread, he crossed the shallow stream and began to skulk up the far bank. Jory and Flora watched him, the nobleman's face damp despite the cool, autumnal air. The sweating man glanced sideways at Flora, who was carrying her staff on her shoulders, her expression impassive.

"Why are you not scared, girl?" he hissed finally, as Daveth melded seamlessly into the trees skirting the top of the ridge. 

“I am scared,” she offered, in an attempt to reassure him. “My face don’t show it, but I am.”

Flora saw no point in telling him that her spirits were breathing down her neck and that she trusted them completely to keep her safe. After all, they had protected her from demons in the Fade since she was a child; and Darkspawn could not be much worse than demons. 

Daveth was now heading back down the sloping bank towards them, slipping and sliding on the wet grass in his haste. His face was the shade of curdled milk, the corner of his mouth twitching compulsively.

"Looks like he’s seen something," replied Alistair cheerfully, though his gaze was also trained on the scrawny man, fingers loose around the hilt of his sword. "Get your phials ready. And your blades.”

Partway through speaking his tone hardened, the rich hazel eyes blazing. Jory gaped, fumbling for his own dagger, although nothing yet seemed out of the ordinary.

"Prepare yourselves," hissed the junior Warden, unsheathing his sword and holding it aloft. Flora fumbled for her staff, which was still hanging behind her back, and nearly choked herself trying to yank it forwards. 

** _Calm down, _ **reproached a disapproving voice, just south of her ear.

A white-faced, trembling Daveth had reached the bottom of the bank and was just about to cross the stream to reach them when there came a bloodcurdling sound from the top of the ridge. It was part snarl and part hollow gurgle; a noise that nothing natural was capable of making. Daveth turned around, his mouth twisting in horror, as several Darkspawn appeared in a mass at the top of the ridge.

Silhouetted against the grey clouds, their twisted forms made a fearful sight. Over six feet tall, hunched and deformed beyond recognition from the living creatures they had once been. They were coated in rags and scraps of ragged muscle, armed with blackwood bows and jagged blades. Their movements were irregular and somehow disjointed, as if the rotten sinew had little control over the eroded bone.

Flora’s jaw dropped; her blood suddenly as cold as seawater in her veins. Demons could at least be spoken to, could be stalled and delayed and sometimes persuaded. Not that she was eloquent enough to debate with the demonic residents of the Fade, but her spirits sometimes amused themselves with idle banter before liquidising her foes into ether. She took a step backwards and almost slipped on the muddy grass, windmilling her arms to stay upright. 

** _Don’t take another step, _ ** reprimanded the sterner of her spirits, the one who claimed to have been a general in a past life. ** _This is just the beginning_ **. 

Beside her she heard Alistair give a roar of challenge, smacking the flat of his sword against his shield and striding into the shallow stream towards Daveth.

“Come on, then!” 

** _Go after him._ **

Flora followed Alistair, her heart hammering painfully against her ribcage. As she splashed into the stream, she tried her best to ignore the instinct that told her to flee in the opposite direction. 

"Your bow! Use your _ bow,” _the young Warden yelled at a frozen Daveth, as death came hurtling down the slope towards him. The man was paralysed as though struck by a spell, his mouth open in a silent gape of terror. The first Darkspawn let out a bestial shriek, gore dripping in globs from its fangs. It began to lope unevenly down the slope on all fours, intent on reaching its meal faster. Alistair went to meet it without hesitation. 

It leapt towards him and he deflected the lunge with a shove of his shield, sending it crashing into the stream with a gurgling howl. Raising his sword, Alistair shoved the point deep into the creature's part-exposed throat. Dark, cloying blood began to spill forth in gouts, mingling with the stagnant water of the stream.

An open-mouthed Flora was so busy watching Alistair kill the Darkspawn - it was so _ violent! _ and _ messy! - _that she missed the clawed hammer hurled from the top of the ridge. It flew end over end, the blade spitting out flecks of virulence as it tumbled towards Daveth’s learner-clad shoulders. 

Only a hiss of warning from Flora’s spirits drew her attention to the lethal projectile. She flung up a hand in panic, heart seizing in her chest; the woods seemed brighter around her for a split second and a gleaming sheath wrapped itself around the Denerim thief. The ax hit the delicate, silver-gold film with a dull clang, dropping into the stream and sinking to the mud. 

Daveth, dazzled by the sudden brightness of the shield, let out a shout of alarm. He stumbled backwards like a drunk from a tavern, losing his balance as a foot plunged into the stream. The next moment he had fallen, taking a gobsmacked Flora with him. Terror had stolen the reason from him; he flailed around with his ringed fist. Flora let out a squeal like a stuck pig and splashed inelegantly on all fours away from him, blood oozing from both nostrils.

Alistair, breathless after tackling and decapitating a second Darkspawn, looked around to see Jory quivering with fright on the far bank, Daveth thrashing around in the stream and Flora prodding experimentally at her broken nose. He gaped for a moment, stunned by such monumental incompetency, then gestured towards the bank. 

"Two more incoming!”

Alistair's yell brought a brief moment of clarity to a wild-eyed Daveth; he fumbled for his bow, managing to nock an arrow. The shot was true; one Darkspawn staggered as it was blinded, the arrowhead driven through an eyesocket. Despite the wound it kept going, hurtling down the slope like a beast driven out of its mind. Jory, seeing that it was aimless, stumbled into the stream and slashed his dagger clumsily across the creature's throat. Dark, coagulated blood dribbled out, further fouling the water.

Meanwhile, Flora had scrambled to her feet, glanced around and spotted Alistair. He was facing down a hulking creature, shaped more like a beast than a man, armed with a brutal spiked club. The junior warden's shield was increasingly dented as he held it up to defend himself from a relentless hail of blows. The creature brought the club down on the shield once more and Alistair staggered backwards, dropping to one knee in the water. The smell of death filled his throat, rancid and cloying.

The Darkspawn raised the club to make a killing blow, teeth bared. The downwards swing came fast and heavy as an Orlesian _ guillotine, _yet it too rebounded with a dull, metallic clang. The Darkspawn staggered, losing its balance as the club went splashing into the knee-deep water.

** _Well done_ **, whispered Flora’s spirits; they had not needed to prompt their young charge this time.

Flora beamed, bloody nosed, surveying her handiwork from several yards away. The sheath gleamed between Alistair and his increasingly enraged foe; whose frenzied blows made no purchase on the gleaming barrier.

Seizing the moment Alistair lunged forward, bringing his sword up in a scything motion. The blade tore a hole in the creature's belly, gutting it from groin to throat. It collapsed to the stream, innards spilling forth in a steaming mass.

It was suddenly very quiet, save for the Darkspawn's death rattle and the ragged gasps of Jory. A lone bird cried to another, low and mournful, across the stagnant marshland. Panting, the young Warden glanced sideways to his initiates. Daveth, face contorted in disbelief, had clambered onto the bank and was standing with his bow dangling limply from a hand. Jory sat near him, crouched over, clutching his knee and gritting his teeth. Freshly-drawn bloke surged between his fingers. Flora, her nose equally bloody, was splashing her way towards them. The corpse of four Darkspawn lay spread around them in various states of dismemberment. Their dark, poisonous blood was already coagulating on the surface of the stagnant water. The entire attack had taken place in less than three minutes.

"Well, I feel sorry for the fish in this stream," commented a breathless Alistair after a moment, sheathing his sword. "They're definitely doomed."

“Oh, no!” breathed Flora, eyes expanding in sympathy. “My favourite animal. Poor fish.”

"Poor us," grumbled Daveth, washing the dark stain from his bow. "This is how the taint is spread; we’re all soaked in it."

"Ah, don't worry about that. We all mostly intact?" replied Alistair vaguely, wading upstream to join them.

Jory let out a strangled moan, teeth gritted as he sat hunched on the bank. The wound to his knee was deep, three parallel claw marks sunk into the the flesh. Flora, after spending a moment in mourning for the doomed fish, headed through the water towards him.

“Don’t _ splash, _idiot!” 

"Daveth, would you do the honours?" asked Alistair, handing over the three glass phials. Muttering under his breath, Daveth took them and gingerly picked his way to one of the leaking corpses.

While the thief collected the blood, Alistair clambered up the grassy bank and surveyed the far side of the ridge, squinting at the marshland beyond for any sign of movement.

"Nothing as far as I can see," he called over his shoulder, glancing back down the bank. Daveth had just finished collecting the third phial of blood, pushing the stopper into the neck of the flask with a grimace.

Meanwhile, Flora occupied herself with Jory; relieved that the combat was over and she was back in her field of expertise. After he had instructed her on how to remove his shinguard, she had peeled back the linen below and press her mouth against the bloodied clawmarks. It took only a minute for the flesh to knit itself together, fibrous strands weaving like the braided hair of a child. The skin was the quickest for her to grow; pink and new, it spread like a winestain to seal in the new flesh. 

Jory’s groaning abated when Flora sat back on her heels, wiping her bloodied mouth with the back of her hand. 

“‘Maker’s Breath,” he said, astonished; looking at her with begrudging admiration. “That’s clean. There’s not even a scar.”

Flora’s brow furrowed at this unintentional insult: her healing had not left _ scars _since she was a child of ten.

"That's because Flora is the most renowned healer in Thedas," replied Alistair, half-sliding back down the blood-slick slope jovially. "She once healed a wart on the Empress Celene's big toe. Just don't ask her to do anything else."

Flora, unsure whether he was making fun of her, frowned. Jory had scrambled to his feet, testing the strength of his knee.

"Aaah,” he enthused, surveying the corpses of the Darkspawn strewn in the stream around them. "Gets the blood pumping, doesn't it? You know, I quite enjoyed that!” 

Daveth, who would have bolted to freedom if they hadn’t been surrounded by miles of diseased-looking marsh, shot him a look of pure contempt. 

After unsuccessfully trying to invert a large dent in his shield, Alistair slung it back onto his shoulders. Checking that his sword was still in its sheath, he tucked away the three phials and turned to the three initiates.

"That’s enough excitement for one day. We’ve got what we came for."

Jory feigned disappointment; but blanched when Alistair suggested slyly that they take a diversion to a nearby Darkspawn camp before returning to the horses. Daveth, conversely, set off without a glance backwards, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

Flora retrieved her staff from where it had floated downstream and wedged itself in the mud. She had not used it in the skirmish; trusting more in her own hands. Alistair, who had been about to overtake her, hesitated. He grimaced, then waved a vague hand in front of his face. 

“Are you going to - ah - fix your nose?”

Flora blinked, reaching up to touch her blooded nostrils. 

“Ooh,” she said, feeling the crunch of splintered bone. “I forgot. Oh!” Indignation struck. _ “He _did that. He punched me!” 

She waggled an accusatory finger towards Daveth, who ignored her.

“People react differently when they see a Darkspawn for the first time,” Alistair replied, forgetting to inject the usual flippancy into his tone. The wound to her face was like seeing a painting slashed or a stained glass window shattered; as though something precious had been vandalised. 

Flora jammed two fingers inelegantly into her nostrils. Alistair’s jaw dropped. Despite the unorthodox methodology, within seconds, her nose had been restored to its former shape. 

“That’s better,” the young Warden said, inexplicably relieved. “It would be a shame, if- if- ”

She blinked at him; he mouthed for a moment, then gave an embarrassed laugh and turned away. 

Since all four of them wanted to leave the infested swamp as soon as possible, it took a much shorter time to retrace their steps. With Daveth setting a rapid pace, they traversed broken bridges, waded across submerged roadways and skirted the edge of fetid marshes. The sun had just touched the western horizon and nobody desired to be still in the Wilds when night came. 

To everyone’s relief, the horses were still grazing quietly around the broken pillar, their reins tied to the crumbling stone. They whickered with excitement on seeing the party return; nostrils flaring and tails whisking. Alistair, who had spent years as a stable lad, began to methodically check each hoof to ensure no small stone had embedded itself within the shoe. Jory tried unsuccessfully to make conversation with a monosyllabic Flora, who - institutionalised from four years in a Circle - was obsessing over missing dinnertime. 

Daveth, contemplating making a run for it, drew in a sudden, sharp intake of breath.

"Well, well, what have we here?" drawled a female voice that simultaneously radiated arrogance and over-familiarity. Alistair dropped the horse’s leg in surprise; Jory’s and Flora’s heads swivelled in unison. 

A woman strolled out from behind the pillar, a cloud of dark hair tied haphazardly atop her head with a myriad of pins, animal bones and feathers. A single scarlet rune was emblazoned on her cheek, and dirt was caked behind long, dagger-tipped fingernails. Her body, lean and sinewy, was cloaked in a collection of sewn-together hides; a blackthorn staff hung across her back on a leather strap. She was barefoot, her feet muddied up to the ankle.

Jory squawked, stepping backwards reflexively onto Flora's toe. The woman's red-painted mouth curled up into a mocking smile.

"Ouch," said Flora.

"What do we have here? Four lost little creatures, wandering in the swamp.”

"Don't look directly at her," hissed Daveth in a panicked undertone. "It's a Witch of the Wilds. I’ve heard tavern-tales about ‘em. She'll turn us all into frogs!"

The woman snorted, her honey-coloured eyes falling on the slender thief from Denerim.

"Ah, but I _ do _ lose track of the names they give us. It's apostate one minute, Witch of the Wilds the next. Have you been hunting Darkspawn again?” 

"How do you know what we've been doing?" retorted Alistair warily, fingertips resting lightly on the hilt of his swore. “Have you been _ spying _on us? That’s very creepy.”

The woman’s scornful curl of the lip was accompanied by a contemptuous toss of her night-dark hair.

"I've seen you here on a few occasions, ‘Grey Warden’. Only a fool returns _ repeatedly _to pester a foe such as the Darkspawn.” 

"Hold, witch!" interrupted a trembling Jory, thrusting the started Flora forwards. "We too have a - ah - _ powerful _ mage with us, so don't try anything!"

Morrigan looked Flora up and down, then laughed for quite a long time. Flora, who was used to mockery from the senior apprentices in the Circle, let her gaze drift over the strange woman’s shoulder. She was still brooding over the fate of the fish in the tainted stream.

“I needed some levity,” the witch said at last, still grinning cruelly. “Well, it’s been a pleasure, but I must bid you farewell. I only wished to _ introduce _ myself - the name is Morrigan, by the way - and see who my visitors were. And I wouldn’t linger… the Wilds are even _ less _friendly after dark.”

She ran her hands over her leather skirts, fingering the crude stitches keeping the hides together. Alistair’s brow furrowed; he wished fervently that Duncan had accompanied them. Dealing with strange, half-dressed witches covered in swamp water was _ not _ his area of expertise - it was bad enough that he had to keep an eye on _ one _ mage.

Morrigan clearly did not believe in prolonged farewells. With a rustling of small animal bones, she slid her feline curves around the pillar; disappearing from view. The next moment, there came a beating of wings. Alistair released the hilt of his sword and strode the pillar’s circumference, confirming that the witch had vanished.

“I hate mages,” the young officer complained, handsome brow creasing. “They’re so… _ tricksy. _Come on, let’s mount up before we lose the light.” 

"Had you ever seen that - that _ woman _before?" Jory asked, after he'd clambered onto the back of his horse. As the nervous knight spoke, he shot a nervous glance at the waning sun, which was submerging itself in the distant Frostbacks.

"Never," admitted Alistair, shoving the yawning Flora onto his saddle like a sack of potatoes before swinging himself up behind her. "I'll be sure to take initiates to a different area in the future. Don't fancy running into her again."

"So is this ‘Joining’ over, then?" interrupted Daveth sourly, his lip curling. "Are we Wardens now?"

"Ah, not quite," replied Alistair, ensuring that there were several inches of space between himself and Flora. "Now it's time for the _ fun _ part."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2019 edit: Ugh I had to do a lot of work on this chapter, it was so shit in its first version XD I’m still not entirely happy with the Morrigan meeting, but it’s better than it was!


	8. An Unconventional Joining

The journey back to the old fortress went swiftly; the riders impatient to return to the relative protection of Ostagar. The horses sensed their urgency and picked up the pace, keenly aware of the danger lurking to the rear. At night the hills and valleys near to the Wilds came alive with Darkspawn; swarming through the trees like a plague of locusts. By the time they clattered onto the outer drawbridge, only a thin sliver of crimson sun remained on the horizon. The formidable stone walls of the fortress, stoic and grey, were a welcome sight. Songs and laughter drifted from the upper courtyard where the king's men made camp; the troops quartered on the lower terraces were in a more somber mood. The evening mist draped itself across the decaying battlements like a shroud; filmy and grey.

As their horses were tended to by grooms, Flora caught the scent of roasted meat; drifting tantalisingly from the direction of the cook-tent. Her head swivelled automatically: used to three hot meals a day at the Circle, the unpredictable eating schedule of her new life was difficult to adapt to. Her stomach let out a loud grumble of protest; too sudden for her to disguise with a cough.

"For a little lass, you have an astonishing preoccupation with food," commented Jory, who had overheard the rumble. 

“Everyone loves food,” mumbled Flora, digging the heel of her hand into her belly in a futile attempt to quiet it. 

Daveth did not join in the conversation. He was standing very still, his ears pricked and face keen as a blade. He was listening to Alistair’s murmured conversation with a Warden bearing a silver mark of seniority; the two men exchanging words in an undertone. Alistair appeared uncharacteristically serious, there was none of the usual, lazy humour in the curve of his mouth. Instead, the hazel eyes were sober; the jaw set with determined stiffness. 

“Quiet,” the thief spat when Jory went to enquire what he had overheard. “They’re discussing the next part of this ‘Joining’.”

They did not have a chance to question Daveth further. Alistair returned to them, his face arranged into an expression of careful neutrality. 

“You’ve got the phials?” he asked Jory; who had taken charge of them on the journey back. “Good. Right. Duncan wants to see you.”

“When will we have dinner?” interjected Flora, pitiably. “I don’t want to miss it.” 

Alistair shot her a swift, unreadable look, before quickly averting his eyes. 

“Later. Follow me.” 

Daveth and Jory exchanged a nervous glance, for once in total agreement. Jory reached down to touch the hilt of his blade, reassuring himself that it was still there.

To their surprise, Alistair did not lead them towards the lower terrace that housed the Grey Warden encampment. Instead, they headed back towards the drawbridge - now raised- that marked the entrance to the fortress. Instead of requesting that it be lowered, the young officer took a sharp turn to the left, skirting Ostagar’s outer boundary. The stonework became increasingly decrepit as they entered a part of the fortress that had been ceded to nature; the stone tumbling down and overgrown with thick, fibrous vines. There were no tents or braziers here, but a path had been hewn - recently from the look of it - through the tangled vegetation. At one point, Alistair collected a wooden torch and lit it from a single burning sconce; another sign that this level of the fortress was not entirely abandoned. 

"I know that the Wardens guard their secrets closely, but this is ridiculous," hissed Jory, almost tripping over as a vine coiled itself around his ankle. “What’s the point of conducting an initiation ceremony if nobody is there to watch it?”

"I don't like this," complained Daveth, as he followed on Jory’s booted heels. "Why are we being led off?”

Alistair made no reply. Rather than leading from the front, he had dropped to the rear; murmuring directions when the way became unclear. It was obvious that he had done so to prevent anyone from fleeing. 

Flora, trailing unenthusiastically behind Daveth, focused on not falling over the rampart foliage that crept across the cobbles. She was worried that the trial might involve fighting a Darkspawn alone, in which case she would be entirely useless. She wondered if she could shield herself indefinitely, letting the Darkspawn tire itself out. 

_And then what?_ she thought, gloomily. _Push it off the battlements? _

Then without warning, they emerged, blinking, onto a stone pavilion which gleamed milky white in the moonlight. In contrast to the undergrowth that had disguised their entrance, the terrace had been cut clean of any foliage; framed by a ring of broken pillars. The pale stone, stark and scrubbed, stood in marked contrast to the dull, grey basalt used to build the rest of the fortress. If Flora had been versed in Thedasian history, she would have recognised the circular pavilion as the remains of an ancient Tevinter temple; once used for religious ceremonies. Now, it had clearly been reappropriated for other purposes.

Duncan stood at the centre of the platform, where once a sacrificial altar would have stood. His face was cool and expressionless; he was clad in the garb of a Fereldan Warden-Commander, with none of the usual Rivaini accents. The firelight from a nearby brazier flickered across the silverite breastplate, so that the sculpted griffon almost seemed to move. It was the only motion about the man; who stood as still as one of the statues that once adorned the temple. 

Alistair cleared his throat, his face solemn. When he spoke, the words emerged quiet and formal. 

"Warden-Commander, I present to you these three initiates. Ser Jory of Highever, Daveth of Denerim and Flora, a Circle mage." 

His voice had a practised tone to it, as though he had made such an introduction many times before. Jory gaped, realising that the Joining ritual had begun the moment that they had entered the stone pavilion. He glanced around, wild-eyed, then took a nervous step backwards onto Flora's toe. She shot him an indignant look as Alistair continued.

"They have successfully completed the first task."

Alistair stepped forwards and handed Duncan the three blood-filled phials, then positioned himself to one side behind his senior officer.

Duncan nodded slightly, then cast his inscrutable, gaze, dark as a crow’s wing, over the three who stood before him. 

”Listen well," he began, his voice thrillingly deep and resonant; like a general from the heroic age giving a speech before battle. "To become a Grey Warden is to devote your entire being - body and soul - to defending the land against the Darkspawn.”

Jory looked a fraction happier: this was more like the noble charge he had envisioned!

“Yet, in order to defeat them, you must first become more like them,” Duncan continued, more softly. “Otherwise, you will rapidly succumb to the taint. Becoming a Warden is a duty for life, not merely for a few weeks.” 

He gestured to the phials of Darkspawn blood, which stood with deceptive innocence atop a nearby pedestal. In the firelight, their contents could be mistaken for Antivan wine.

“Now, friends - drink. Drink, and become one of us.”

Jory let out a visible gasp of disbelief, glancing sideways at an equally incredulous Daveth.

"You want us to… _drink_ that stuff? That _poison_?! For the love of the Maker - _why_?”

"It'll allow you to sense the Darkspawn as they approach," interjected Alistair, in an attempt to be helpful. "And it'll delay the onset of the taint. Like Duncan said, you can’t fight them without it, not for long.”

Jory took another step backwards, before Duncan’s soft, ominous shake of the head stopped him in his tracks. 

"The end justifies the means," said the Warden-Commander, quietly. "And the Blight must be ended. There is no other way. Daveth of Denerim, step forward."

Daveth inhaled sharply, his eyes darting from side to side. Trapped between Duncan and Alistair; there was no means of escape. He had seen the Rivaini in combat; despite the man’s greying hair, he had moved with more swiftness agility than a youth three decades his junior. 

“Step forward,” repeated Duncan, a threatening edge creeping into his tone.

Trembling, the thief stepped forward and grabbed the phial roughly. Uncorking it, his face ghastly, he tossed it back like it was a shot of Feraldan brandy. 

The next moment, the phial dropped from his outstretched hand. As it rolled, half-full, on the stone, Daveth followed it, falling to his knees as though struck a body blow. He began to convulse, his back arching and his mouth stretching wide in a silent scream. Ser Jory stood frozen on the spot, face white and spongy as a pudding, watching in horror. Flora instinctively took a step forward, but no magic rose in her throat; her fingertips remained dull and lethargic.

**_There is nothing to be done,_ **the kinder of her two spirits whispered; their voice like the creaking of a rusted door. **_No healing can save him. _**

Now the man was in a fetal position, belching great gouts of dark effluence, staining the front of his leather tunic. Flora bit her lip miserably, her pale eyes settling on Duncan. The old Warden’s face was impassive, but there was regret in his returning stare.

"He was not strong enough to resist the taint, little one. Even with your prodigious skill, there is nothing you can do."

It was far from the first time that Flora had seen a man die. Men were washed up on the shore of Herring with regularity; chewed up and spat out by the cruelest sea in Thedas. Many had died, despite her frantic efforts; choking on sea water or crushed bodily against the reef. Yet she never become accustomed to losing a patient, and would spend the rest of the night sulking and miserable.

Daveth had finally stopped belching out the dark matter and was letting out a low, animal of pain. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, erratic breath rattling in his lungs. His fingers were raking mindlessly at his face, clawing at the flesh.

Flora was unable to stand it any longer. She went to kneel beside the dying man, feeling the cold stone of the pavilion through the thin leather of her leggings. 

“You can’t do anything to help him.” 

A perplexed Alistair repeated his commander’s words, brow furrowed as he watched her reach out to take Daveth’s hand; moving it gently away from his bloodied cheek. 

The dying man strained reflexively towards her, his irises only partly visible behind a white, stagnant cloud. Flora leaned closer, so that he could focus on her face; serene, solemn and Maker-touched. 

“Don’t worry,” she breathed, determined to do something to ease his passing. “The journey across the Veil is hard, but… but the destination is worth it.”

He mouthed silently, thin trickles of blackened blood seeping from each nostril. 

“I’m a mage, remember,” Flora continued, still clutching his hand with the strong grip of a fisherman. “I know what the Fade is like. You’ll be able to rest once you get there. It’ll be peaceful, and… and it won’t hurt.”

She cast around in her mind for the right words; she was not devout but she knew that most people were. 

“The kingdom of the Maker is all gold, and it’s beautiful,” she whispered, ashamed of her ineloquence. “Can you see it? You’re almost there. It's _so_ close.” 

Flora surreptitiously edged her free hand forwards, summoning just enough of her magic to cast a gilded light across Daveth’s black-veined face. His eyes widened in wonder, he opened his mouth as though to speak; then a final breath escaped his throat and the pupils rolled back into his skull.

It seemed very quiet without the laboured breathing and guttural groaning of the dying man. Flora sat with her fingers still clamped around Daveth’s palm, feeling the skin grow cold and clammy against her own. She had not noticed the fine drizzle that was now falling, pooling in the trodden indentations on the stone. Even though she had known the thief from Denerim less than a day, she still felt sorrow at his passing. Death was, after all, the eternal enemy of the healer. 

Duncan, surprised to find that he was still human enough to feel oddly touched, glanced sideways to see Alistair gazing at Flora with a slightly dazed expression writ across his handsome face; as though he had been struck over the head with something blunt and unexpected. He was about to clear his throat to reclaim his junior officer’s attention, when- 

The silence was broken by the sound of a blade being unsheathed. Ser Jory, his round, moonlike face hard and determined, had retreated several steps. The wicked point of his dagger curved up before him, trembling to reflect the tremor of his hand.

"I won't do it!" he bleated, in the high, reedy tone of a desperate man. "This ritual is madness, it's- it's _murder_! I'm leaving!"

Duncan let his stare pierce the man, willing him to back down. _He showed such promise at the tourney,_ he thought, drawing forth patience with great effort. _He would be an asset to us. _

Alistair let out a sigh beneath his breath that suggested that this was not the first time that someone had refused the ritual.

"You can’t leave," Duncan said patiently, his dark eyes still boring into the terrified knight. "You agreed to the terms."

"I didn't know about- about _this_!" retorted Jory, spreading his arms to encompass the two wardens and the dead man. "Blood rituals? Swallowing the taint? It's madness! Does the world know what you Wardens do in the name of your Order?"

"We do it to keep them _safe_!" Duncan's voice was hardening with each word, temper rising. "Ser Jory, you have no choice."

Flora, still kneeling beside Daveth’s corpse, gaped in astonishment. She fought the urge to crawl off and hide behind a pillar. 

Jory drew his dagger, the blade shuddering as he pointed it towards Duncan. There was a dark stain on the front of his tunic

"Well, I won't do it. I’ll kill you before I die like Daveth!"

The desperate man lunged forward with the blade; stumbling like an angry drunk. Flora lifted her hand but the Warden-Commander was already moving; swift and agile as a cat. In a single, sweeping motion born from decades of combat, Duncan drew a sword over his shoulder and swung it upwards. Jory stopped, very suddenly. He swayed, mouthing like a fish out of water. A second later he slumped soundlessly to the stone, face down; opened from throat to navel. The profusion of blood that immediately began to pool around him suggested that he had died before hitting the ground.

It was over so quickly that Flora barely had time to comprehend what had happened. She stared at the newly dead man, her eyes wide, then gazed up at Duncan. Jory’s blood was creeping across the stone towards her; a bright scarlet tide. 

Over the years the Warden-Commander had slain countless initiates who had quailed at completing the ritual. Knowing the importance of keeping the Joining process secret, he had felt neither guilt nor regret over these necessary killings. Yet, when the girl turned those huge, dove-grey eyes on him, the lashes dark and clear as though painted on with a fine-tipped quill, he felt a rare urge to justify himself. For some reason, he did not want her to think him a monster.

“Young one,” he said quietly, capturing her gaze and holding it. “There are rules we all must obey.”

She nodded, open-mouthed. She knew the importance of rules; there were many of them in the Circle and Flora was an obedient girl. Alistair reached down, hauling her upright - not ungently - before the flood of Joey’s blood could reach her. She still appeared somewhat stunned that their number had been so drastically reduced, so swiftly.

The pavilion seemed very quiet without Jory’s frightened, gasping breaths, or Daveth’s ominous muttering. Flora looked at her two dead companions as they lay on the floor, the corners of her mouth turning downwards. She looked absurdly young, and very unsure of both herself and the men standing before her. A smudge of someone else’s blood marred her cheekbone. 

“Flora,” Duncan said gently, aware that his upcoming suggestion was a massive violation of protocol. “Do you want to postpone your Joining until tomorrow? It’s been a long day for you.”

Alistair turned astonished eyes on his commander. The Rivaini told himself that he was simply making the allowance because he wanted a mage of her unique - albeit narrow - skill to survive; to give her the best possible chance. The night had settled in like a weary Mabari, draping itself darkly across the fortress. The moonlight had drained the colour from Flora’s face; she had the pallor of a Tevinter marble. 

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes distant. The moon hung overhead, a vast and milky globe, so low that it could almost have been spying on the events taking place in the stone circle.

“I’ll do it now.” 

“Are you certain?” The Warden-Commander had few untainted memories left of his youth, but once - many decades ago - he had been a young man, brimming over with arrogance, and lust, and the desire to improve his lot in life.

_And a weakness for redheads._

“Mm,” mumbled Flora, lifting her chin in an effort not to look at the lifeless bodies strewn at their feet. “I’ll do it now.”

Duncan felt an uncharacteristic twinge of guilt as he offered her a phial, the liquid within dark and meaty. He had initiated hundreds into the Wardens during his tenure as their commander, yet never had he inflicted the taint on someone like her. It seemed almost obscene to feed such a foul tincture down that slender, white throat.

Flora took it, hoping that he couldn’t feel the trembling of her wrist. The slender glass container was cold against her palm, the contents prevented from spilling out by a small stopper. From the tail of her eye, she caught sight of Alistair’s sober face. He was gazing fixedly ahead, his lips pressed tight together. 

“I just have to swallow it?” she asked, tentatively. “I don’t have to… to fight a monster or anything?”

"The fight will take place inside your body, and there is nothing you can do to sway the outcome," replied the older man, softly.

_A monster. She’s young for her years. _

Flora peered at the vial, filled with the semi-coagulated liquid. It was a scarlet so dark that it almost appeared black, and appeared strangely innocuous for a substance that came from a creature so foul. Tilting the vial, she watched the liquid slide slowly up the side of the glass. Darkspawn blood appeared to be of thicker consistency than its human equivalent.

_Stop procrastinating, you jellyfish._

_ **Swallow it. ** _

Before she could change her mind, Flora nudged the stopper loose, brought the phial to her lips and drained it in three clumsy, grimacing gulps.

Alistair had seen the ritual performed dozens of times; Duncan hundreds. The initiate would imbibe the blood. There would be a brief and brutal struggle between the body and the taint. Nobody knew quite why some managed to resist and others succumbed- Duncan had seen scrawny adolescents succeed where burly warriors had fallen. If the initiate survived this initial battle, they would fall to the floor, their eyes glazing over as they witnessed the calling of the Archdemon for the first time. They would see the dragon as if through a shadowed dream. Some would die then, gasping for air as though choking. Those who survived would awaken some hours later. They would be stronger, hardier – and most importantly, immune to the taint.

_At least for now._

Flora pulled a face, then spluttered. A few moments later, trickles of blood began to run from her mouth - but it was not the blackened, clotting mass that she had swallowed. Instead, the blood was fresh, crimson and fluid as wine. Yet, the girl appeared to be in no discomfort. Instead she appeared mildly embarrassed as the blood spilled down her throat, soaking into her linen collar.

In his two decades as Warden-Commander, and three spent as a Warden, Duncan had never seen such a reaction. He turned to Alistair, who looked equally perplexed.

“You’re sure that there was Darkspawn blood in that phial, Alistair,” he questioned, the rich span of his brow creasing as he frowned. “Not some other animal?”

Alistair was so astonished that he forgot to look affronted. 

“I’m positive,” he replied, immediately. “I watched Daveth collect it from a Hurlock. It was the same one that he got his own sample from.”

“What the fuck,” said Duncan, reverting for a rare moment to his youth as a bellicose street urchin. 

“Um,” mumbled Flora, apologetic. “My body don’t take well to being poisoned.”

“No one ‘takes well’ to being poisoned,” replied Alistair, testily. “That’s the point of poison.”

“Noo-oo,” she said, uncertain how to explain it. “My body - it turns… harmful things into harmless things when I eat them. Wine turns to water. A stew that gave everyone at the Circle belly-trouble didn’t affect me at all. It’s to do with my healing, I think.” 

Once again, Duncan recalled the spirit healers from Rivain; who spent more time in their tents communing with the Fade than they did in the waking world. 

_She breathes out the creation energy, as though it manifests within her. _

He removed his glove, then reached forward to run his finger along Flora’s bloodied chin. Bringing the finger to his mouth, he inhaled the scent before taking a quick taste. Even with his dulled senses, he was able to identify the substance.

“This is human blood,” he said, and gave a small, unexpected laugh of surprise. “Maker above. You drank the Hurlock blood, and it became human again.”

Flora had no idea what he was talking about. 

“Maker’s Breath!” exclaimed Alistair, equally astounded. “That’s the strangest thing I’ve seen all week - no, all month. And these are strange times!”

She began to worry that she had inadvertently failed the Joining, and if this would result in her too meeting a grisly fate at the end of Duncan’s blade. 

Duncan noticed the girl’s shoulders drooping, her eyes returning to Jory’s eviscerated corpse. He lifted her bloodied chin with a finger, catching and holding her gaze in his own unblinking stare. 

“We’ll have to try again.” 

They began with half-measures. Flora dutifully gulped down the remainder of Daveth’s tainted phial, nearly gagging at the bitterness. Within seconds, fresh blood was running down her chin, mingling with the first, flaking layer. Then she was given Jory’s untouched sample. She managed to drain the phial, only to inadvertently produce more cleansed blood. The front of her linen shirt was now the same dark crimson shade as her hair. The scent of iron lingered in the air; leaving a metallic tang in the back of the throat.

The more that Flora’s body rejected the taint, the more determined Duncan grew. He sent Alistair to fetch several more phials of stored Darkspawn blood from his tent, kept in liquid form with the aid of lyrium. As the junior officer returned, a distant bell sounded to signal the midnight change in watch. The corpses of Daveth and Jory were growing stiff on the stone tiles; their eyes blank and staring. 

Flora dutifully swallowed three more phials, with little success. Duncan paced back and forth, mingled fascination and frustration writ across his handsome, prematurely lined features. She had taken what should have been a fatal dose of the taint many times over, yet still she stood there patiently: soaked in blood that was not her own, and not that of a Darkspawn - not any longer, anyway.

Alistair, yawning but reluctant to leave, leaned against a nearby pillar to watch. There was still enough Templar in the young man to find the nature of Flora’s magic unnerving; there was something raw, and primal about it. He narrowed his eyes, determinus not to leave his commander alone in the presence of such a peculiar young mage.

Duncan was another to send for more phials, when Flora caught his attention, reaching out to tap his elbow gently as he passed. 

“If you make a cut - a small cut,” she clarified hastily, showing him the inside of her elbow. “Then rub some of the… the blood in it. That should work. It’s only my mouth that cleanses things.” 

It was clear from her stilted explanation that Flora was reciting instructions whispered to her from voices only she could hear. 

Duncan, who by this point was willing to try anything, wasted no time. Swiftly producing a small blade from the interior of his armour, he advanced on a miserable-looking Flora. By now, she was thoroughly fed up: she had seen two men die and been unable to prevent either death, she had ingested more blood than a shark at a shipwreck, and now a very dangerous man was about to inflict additional damage on her.

“You’ll have to do it quickly,” she informed him, sulking. “Otherwise it’ll just heal u- _ouch_!”

Duncan had taken her at her word. With the swiftness that had once made him an excellent pickpocket, he brought the tip of the blade across the soft skin of Flora’s inner elbow. She squawked in pain and began an instinctive recoil; only to be held in place by his grip clamping her in place like a manacle. Alistair, his eyebrows lodged somewhere in his corn-gold hairline, offered Duncan yet another phial; Duncan broke off the stopper in his teeth, spat it out and shook the tainted contents over the inch-long cut. Flora grimaced, gave a shiver; her eyes screwed shut

Duncan and Alistair shared a quick, relieved glance of triumph; though the Warden-Commander swiftly returned his attention to Flora. Next would come the unconsciousness, the visions of the Archdemon, and the struggle of the body against such brutal corruption. Not wanting her to fall heavily on the stone tile, he was about to reach out to steady her when - 

\- when a loud rumble echoed from her belly. 

“Not my fault,” followed immediately afterwards, embarrassed and indignant. “We skipped dinner.” 

Duncan’s gaze slid upwards in astonishment. Flora was eyeballing him with some resentment; the full mouth curved downwards. She seemed to have suffered no adverse effect at all. 

“Bloody hell,” exclaimed Alistair; fed up with the strangeness of it all. “Can’t just _one_ thing about you be _normal_?”

Flora’s shoulders dropped, reminded unpleasantly of her Harrowing. 

_Why can’t I do anything properly?_ she bemoaned to her spirits; _one of whom was unsympathetic. _

_ **Stop sulking, child. It’s repulsive. ** _

The other spirit did not speak - they rarely did - but Flora felt a vague hum of compassion, buzzing round the perimeter of her skull like a trapped bee.

Meanwhile, Alistair was still straddling the mount of indignancy, his handsome brow furrowed. 

“Did it work?” he demanded, pique disguising his continuing bewilderment. “Is she a Warden, now?”

Duncan held up a hand to hush him, not unkindly. He leaned forward, peering closely into Flora‘s eyes; which bore no foreign cloudiness across the sea-grey irises. Her skin was pale as ever, white and smooth as Orlesian porcelain. He could feel the taint running through her veins - just - but it was a lone, discordant note amidst the harmonious workings of her body. He noticed, almost offhandedly, that the cut he had made on her elbow had sealed without a trace. When he closed his eyes, he could sense her; but only as a flickering shadow at the edge of his mind. Alistair’s presence, in contrast, was as solid and weighty as a Fereldan Forder. 

“Yes, I believe she is,” the Warden-Commander murmured, opening his eyes. A rumble of amusement escaped his throat as he saw the trepidation on Flora’s face. “Relax, child. It’s over.”

“Did… did I pass?” 

Flora was worried that she had somehow _messed up_ her second ancient ceremony in a week. Duncan offered an absent smile, his mind still working furiously. 

“Yes,” he murmured. “You’re one of us, now. Congratulations.”

He was touched by how much she lit up under his praise; her eyes bright and clear as elvhen lanterns. It was obvious that she was not used to receiving compliments based on anything other than her appearance; a random lucky happenstance of birth which she could take no credit for. 

_If I were a decade younger, I would take her back to my tent,_ he thought, with a wry amusement. _It’s been a while since my last redheaded mage._

_Although, perhaps not. Not all nineteen year olds are created alike; and she seems to know little of the world - or, of anything. _

An owl hooted somewhere in the valley below, an anchor of normality.

“Alistair,” the Warden-Commander said, wrenching himself from such a distracting line of thought. “Take our new sister-warden to the Chantry encampment, find some priestesses to prepare a bath. Some will still be awake after midnight prayers.”

Alistair nodded, pinkness creeping up his neck from beneath his breastplate. He gestured for Flora, who was still bloodied from the previous unsuccessful attempts, to follow him. 

_Alistair was the right choice,_ the Warden-Commander told himself, stifling any residual wistfulness. _He’s the only man at Ostagar who won’t try and spy on her in the bathtub. _

_Now - to write to Weisshaupt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2019 edit - I changed pretty much this entire chapter! Now that I’ve got a much better understanding of how Flora’s magic works, the previous version didn’t make sense. 
> 
> So, since Flora is a font of creation energy, it makes it very difficult for her to become tainted - her body naturally neutralises poisons by reverting them to their harmless form, hence the Hurlock blood reverts to human blood. In the end, they bypass her throat (where her healing magic manifests in its most potent form), and introduce it directly into her bloodstream via a small cut. Which was how they used to administer early vaccines (like Jenner’s smallpox vaccine in 1798) before the invention of syringes! 
> 
> Incidentally, I’ve also reflected some of Duncan’s youth in here - I can’t remember which DA novel he shags a redheaded a Circle mage in, but it’s definitely a thing! Also Duncan is fit as fuck, got to have my wish fulfilment in there somewhere (don’t worry; it’s not going to go full grey wolf lol)


	9. The New Sister-Warden

Leaving Duncan to his thoughts and the corpses of the failed initiates, Alistair gestured for Flora to follow him. She did so dutifully, still shocked by the untimely ends of both Daveth and Jory. The torches lit up the overgrown pathway, the foliage trodden down by dozens of boots. The junior officer was a foot taller than Flora, his stride measuring double that of hers. She had to quicken her pace to keep up, then almost collided with him when he stopped abruptly in his tracks. They were in the last stretch of isolated pathway, a dozen yards from the large courtyard that marked the entrance to Ostagar. The sound of the main camp drifted towards them, along with the scent of roasted meat. 

Alistair was silent for several moments, a furrow dividing his handsome brow in two. Flora took an instinctive step back, peering warily up at him through the evening gloom. His hazel eyes were uncharacteristically serious, his mouth in a rigid line. 

"What?" she asked nervously, as a fresh burst of raucous laughter broke out from somewhere close by. Alistair stared down at her, his gaze searching her face as if he was looking for something in particular. One of his gloved hands reached out to grip her elbow, the fingers tightening around the flesh. Her spirits roused themselves; flickering their displeasure in the back of her mind. 

Flora recognised the wariness lurking in the depths of Alistair’s green-flecked eyes. She had seen the same mistrust on the faces of the Templars at the Circle - she could recognise it anywhere, even in the honest face of this young Warden.

_ And he was trained as a Templar, wasn’t he? Duncan mentioned it on our journey down. _

"You're hurting my arm," she said, and was relieved when his fingers loosened their grip on her elbow.

“Did you deliberately mess up the ritual?” 

“Whaa?”

“Did you - did you use your magic to change how the Darkspawn blood affected you?” The words came out in a tangled rush. “I’ve never seen anyone need _ three _vials to receive the taint before.”

Flora was oddly flattered that Alistair thought her skilled enough to deliberately alter the outcome of her Joining. 

“I didn’t do nothing,” she said, deciding that she ought not to give the impression that she _ herself _was skilled. “I told you, my body reacts to poison differently. It’s my spirits, they don’t like it.”

Alistair’s frown deepened; the suspicion writ raw across his handsome features. 

“It’s just - peculiar, that’s all,” he said, not quite looking her in the eye. “A bit _ weird.” _

The corners of Flora’s mouth turned down almost comically. Despite knowing that it was unfair, Alistair could not resist blaming her for the strangeness of the situation.

_ And for how disconcerting she is, _ the young officer thought, annoyed with himself. _ Duncan shouldn’t have brought such a pretty girl to a fortress full of soldiers. It’ll distract them from their purpose. _

“Am I in trouble?” Flora asked, full of trepidation. “Because of the ritual?”

“Yes,” he replied meanly, then felt guilty as her eyes expanded to the size of saucers. “Well, no, not really. Come on, sister-warden. I’ll take you back to the initiate’s tent.”

Avoiding the campfires and curious stares, Alistair led Flora back to the tent where she had left her meagre belongings. He did not speak to her again, walking several paces in front and keeping his eyes fixed ahead. 

The initiate’s tent was dark in comparison to the surrounding courtyard, which was lit by several squat-bellied braziers. Alistair lifted the flap for Flora, catching a glimpse of her fine-hewn, miserable face before hastily excusing himself.

Flora avoided the bunks that had so recently belonged to Daveth and Jory. She sat on the spare bed in the corner, also avoiding the large patch of damp on the blankets, and let out a sigh. It seemed as though she had inadvertently bungled her second ritual of the week.

_ Did the taint even have any effect on me? _

** _Yes, it runs in your blood._ **

_ Then why don’t I feel any different? _

** _ Because we are suppressing it. _ **

_ Oh. _

Flora could not be bothered to enquire further. A bone-weariness had crept up on her, tiredness lapping at the corners of her brain like a rising tide. She leaned back on the narrow bed, flailing her legs with a grumble of effort until her boots slithered off. The mattress, hard and lumpen, felt identical to her old bunk back in the Circle dormitory. 

_ I'll close my eyes for a little bit, _ she reasoned to herself. _ Just for a moment. It’s been a long day. _

The moon hung so low in the starless sky that it seemed to rest on the lofty pinnacle of the Tower of Ishal. The king's camp had fallen silent, Cailan finally growing tired of music and jest. Conversely, the terrace housing the Grey Wardens still hummed with activity. The men within suffered from taint-induced insomnia; often staying up beyond midnight to drink, converse and commiserate. A dozen, ranging from junior to senior, were gathered around the smouldering remains of a campfire. They spoke in low voices, laughing occasionally, indulging in characteristic dark humour. Empty bottles of ale rested alongside discarded swords, while their owners sprawled nearby. The Wardens lacked the discipline of their army counterparts, as General Mac Tir was so fond of - and frequent in - pointing out. 

One Warden had just finished telling a story about an initiate he had escorted through the Korcari Wilds. On seeing a Hurlock for the first time, the potential recruit had fled shrieking into the marshes. The Warden had chased him down on foot, only to find him neck-deep in quagmire.

"Poor bugger," the bearded man commented, taking a long draw of his brandy. "Thought he could escape, but the Wilds wouldn't let him go that easy."

"What happened?" Alistair asked, his brow furrowed. "Did you manage to free him?"

The reply was more than a little condescending, and accompanied with a pitying glance.

"No. Genlock arrow got him._ " _

Alistair grimaced, while the other men laughed. The bearded Warden shook his head, wryly.

"Ah, you care too much about the uninitiated, young Alistair. What happened to your three, anyway?"

There was a ripple of interest around the campfire. Several of those on the verge of nodding off suddenly sat upright, exchanging swift, darting looks at one another.

“Two died during the Joining,” Alistair replied, not elaborating on the nature of Jory’s death. 

“And the little girl?” The man’s question was overly casual, tongue flickering quickly over his lips. 

Alistair did not like the keen look on his brother-warden’s face; a Mabari scenting a particularly succulent rabbit.

“She survived.”

The man’s grin widened. A dwarf nudged his neighbour and muttered something crude. 

_ “Maker be praised,” _ he drawled, lasciviously. “Which tent she staying in? I must _ introduce _ myself.”

“Try it, and I’ll introduce your balls to my blade.”

The other Wardens sat up straighter, the conversation dying in their throats. The dwarf dropped his skewered sausage into the fire. The man with the beard flinched, grimacing as though struck. 

“It was only a jest, Duncan,” Gehan protested, lamely. “I’d never lay a hand on one of our own.”

The Warden-Commander had appeared in the shadows at the edge of the campfire, lupine and far more predatory than anything lurking in the forested valley below. His tawny flesh was made richer by the flickering firelight, but his eyes were as cold and dark as a starless night.

“I haven’t forgotten what you were before I saved you from the gallows, Gehan,” Duncan said, conversationally. “You come within a horse-length of my new recruit and I’ll string you up myself.”

The look he cast around the campfire made his meaning clear: _ and the same goes for the rest of you. _

The other Wardens, keener to stay on Duncan’s good side than they were to joke with Gehan, murmured deferential acquiescence. Duncan kept up the glare for a moment long, then cast off his anger like a mantle; smiling easily at his men. 

“How did you find the eastern Wilds today, Halmick?” 

“Damp, dark and more depressin’ than my great-aunt Helga’s undies drawer, Duncan!”

The Warden-Commander spent several minutes talking with his men. He heard a condensed version of the full-length reports that sat on the desk within his tent; probed when he wanted further clarification; promised to act on a complaint that General Mac Tir had appropriated their smithy. He smiled at a joke from the dwarf and accepted a gulp - but only one - from someone’s ale. Finally, his gaze came to settle on Alistair, who was sitting at the very edge of the campfire. It had taken a long time for the others to invite him to their nightly gatherings; the young officer was seen as the Warden-Commander’s favourite, routinely accompanying him on his recruitment journeys and saved from the more dangerous undertakings into the Wilds. Alistair was the subject of frequent jibes and ribbing on account of this preferential treatment.

Tonight, though Duncan did not seem especially pleased with his young officer. The lines on his brow deepened as he frowned, surveying the shadows at the edge of the crowd. The other men had resumed their bantering, more bottles retrieved to sustain the evening.

"Alistair," murmured the Warden-Commander in an undertone as laughter rippled around the fire. “Where’s my new mage? I asked you to keep an eye on her.”

Alistair hung his head. “Sorry, Duncan. I - I left her in the initiate’s tent. Thought she might want a nap.”

The young officer looked shame-faced, aware that he had not carried out his instructions with the usual dedication. Duncan sighed, declining an offered bottle of ale and the seat which he had been about to take.

”Come on.”

Alistair followed in Duncan's footsteps, across the Warden terrace and up the steps leading to the main courtyard. They inadvertently roused the Mabari kennels as they passed by, leaving a cacophony of barking and the curses of the handlers in their wake. 

“I thought that supervising a pretty girl would be an enjoyable duty, Alistair,” the Warden-Commander said with mild reproach as they passed beneath the looming Tower of Ishal. “You’ve abandoned her like a pup with a twisted leg.”

“No, I- ” Alistair flailed for a moment. “She’s not just _ pretty. _How am I meant to keep the men away from her? They won’t listen to me.”

“Tell then that she’s a powerful mage who could light their manhoods aflame. Ah, so that’s what this is _ really _ about.” Duncan had spotted the grimace flickering across Alistair’s handsome face. 

Alistair’s silence served as assent. They had reached the drab exterior of the initiate’s tent; the Warden-Commander drew to a halt before entering. 

“Alistair, when I recruited you from the Templars, I expected you to leave their prejudices behind along with their armour.” Duncan’s dark eyes bore into the young officer’s face, opaque as the night sky overhead. “She’s a _ mage _, not a ravening Hurlock.”

“She _ talks _ to… to _ things _ in the Fade,” Alistair protested, making scant effort to keep his voice down. “Whole _ conversations _ with them. And you saw how she reacted to the Joining. She’s just - _ strange.” _

Duncan felt a jolt of wistfulness for Rivain; where those who communed with the spirits were properly appreciated, rather than viewed with fear and suspicion. He knew that he should not blame the boy - the Fereldan ran deep in him - _ and yet. _

”She’s not strange,” he replied, reaching for the canvas flap that hung over the entrance. “She’s sweet, and fresh out of a Circle. Unleash your nurturing side on her.”

Alistair grumbled beneath his breath, but respected Duncan too much to protest any further. 

“Alright,” he said, the reluctance raw on his handsome face. “I’ll do my best. She’s not a Mabari pup, though.”

_ I wish she were, _ thought the young man to himself. _ Much less complicated. _

The interior of the tent was bathed in shadow; the moonlight casting a pale, elongated oblong between the bunks. Patches of damp laced with creeping black mould decorated the canvas walls. Flora was on the bunk furthest from the entrance; the only occupant of the tent. She was slumped inelegantly on the pallet mattress, one arm trailing downwards and her face buried in the crook of her elbow. She would have looked exactly like an Orlesian doll cast from the cradle, if not for that unmistakably Fereldan colouring.

Duncan crossed the tent, inordinately relieved. Restraining himself from touching her cheek, he instead gave her shoulder a gentle shake. 

"Flora."

He liked the sound of her name on his tongue: trochaic and lyrical. It brought to mind roots, and growing things, and leaves budding in the springtime.

_ I’ve spent too much of my life surrounded by rot and darkness. _

Flora opened one eye and then the other. As one who had been raised in communal dormitories, she was used to being woken by a myriad of people, and did not startle at the proximity of the Warden-Commander. She gazed thoughtfully at him through her autumnal hair; he smiled at the solemnity of her expression. 

“Am I in trouble?” Flora asked, still brooding over Alistair's earlier comment. 

“Have you misbehaved?” Duncan replied, his smile followed with an inward sigh: _ far too old and decrepit for flirting. Come on, set a good example for the lad. _

Flora looked confused; she wasn’t the sharpest sword in the armoury. She rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve like a child, then clambered out of bed so gracelessly that she managed to hit her head on one of the supporting struts.

“Ow,” she said, while Alistair gawped at her in disbelief. “They’re made different from the Circle bunks.”

A lump had appeared on her forehead, the size of a silver coin. More alarmingly, Flora was still covered in the remnants of the Joining - Daveth’s blood was caked in flaking patches, beside more sinister stains. Her Circle tunic and leggings were saturated, along with their soft-soled and unsuitable slippers. A clump of something nasty clung to the end of her untidy braid.

“Well,” said Duncan, unsure whether a chuckle would be unkind. He had plucked this lovely creature from the silent, academic reverence of the cedar-scented Circle. She had been pristine from head to toe, her braid shining as though polished, her clothing plain and spotless. Now, she looked as though two Mabari had dragged her backwards through multiple hedges. Conversely, a yawning Flora could not have cared less about her appearance. She had never seen her reflection in a mirror prior to her move to the Circle at fifteen, and had spent the majority of her northern childhood covered in the blood and guts of fish and other marine creatures. 

“Alistair will take you to find a bath,” the Warden-Commander continued, softly. “And some new clothing. I’m afraid that we probably don’t have any armour to fit you in our stores. Or any shirts, for that matter.”

“I don’t need armour,” she replied, not wanting to cause any more problems for him. “And I don’t care about having clothing that fits.”

Flora frowned, turning her pale, clear as seawater irises on him. 

“I don’t think I should be _ naked, _though,” she said thoughtfully. 

Duncan laughed at the grave expression on her face, hearing Alistair almost fall over behind him. 

_ Ah, Alistair was right, _ he thought to himself, watching her flinch in alarm at the still-unfamiliar hoot of a nearby owl. _ She is a little strange, though charmingly so. _

“I assure you, I won’t let that happen,” he replied with equal gravity. “And neither will Alistair.”

As he left, the Warden-Commander noticed that the bump on his new mage’s forehead had vanished, melting into the skin without trace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewrote this from scratch! Wanted to feature more of Sexy Duncan before I tragically have to kill him off, WARGHHHHHH! Oh well, at least he’ll live on forever in my smut fic XD


	10. First Night At Ostagar

Alistair was determined not to let Duncan down twice in one day. Despite the fact that it was now past midnight, if there was a water-filled bathtub somewhere within the boundaries of the fortress; Flora was getting plunged into it. Flora trailed after him as he prowled through one decaying courtyard after another, head swivelling for a wash-tent with an attendant. The communal washing area, which seemed to be the best bet, was swarming with soldiers recently returned from patrol. Without much hope, Alistair asked Flora if she would be happy to bathe in the company of three dozen honourable men. Flora had given him a look of such alarm that he had not pursued the idea.

Finally, the beleaguered warden had taken her to the terrace devoted to the Chantry; located in a coveted spot tucked away from the bitter west wind. To his relief, several priestesses had just finished conducting a midnight ceremony for a particularly devout local bann; who had relinquished a hefty bag of gold alongside his confession. After some persuasion from Alistair - fortunately, the old Chantry Mother was still susceptible to a handsome face - they agreed to let Flora use their own bathing quarters. 

A yawning Alistair left her in the care of the priestesses, promising to return when he had found clothing to fit her slender frame. Reluctantly he had also taken her staff with him, on the insistence of the Chantry sisters. Flora found herself standing alone in the bench-lined tent; with nobody willing to assist her. There was a large copper tub in the centre of the canvas chamber, full of tepid water. An unused linen sheet for drying hung nearby; someone had clearly changed their mind about taking a bath on such a chilly autumn night. Along one tented wall, a set of shelves contained a myriad of scents, soaps and oils; the array of liquid-filled glass containers resembled an alchemist’s store cupboard. 

After eyeballing the fragrant oils and scented soaps in mild alarm, Flora chose the plainest she could find. Even this nondescript cream-coloured bar carried an unfamiliar botanical odour that made her sneeze. Disrobing, she stacked her bloodied clothes in a neat pile on the seagrass matting. It took a great deal of patience to untangle the leather tie from her hair, during which the bathwater lost its residual heat. Flora’s teeth began to chatter as she clambered over the copper rim, soap in hand. 

_ Stop shivering,  _ she instructed her own quivering body, sternly.  _ You’ve grown soft from too many heated baths in the Circle. This is MUCH better! _

Tendrils of dark red hair floated on the surface of the water like long skeins of seaweed. Flora inspected the two pink hillocks of her knees, then sneezed again as she inhaled a noseful of soapy scent. 

“J-j-just like in Herring,” she told herself through clattering teeth, sliding the soap along her forearms. “Cold baths build c-c-character!”

It took a long time for her to wash the remnants of Darkspawn blood out of her hair. It took longer still to claw her fingers through the thick tangles of dark red, muttering darkly under her breath and wondering why she didn’t  _ just cut it all off.  _

** _Because it’ll regrow in a week._ **

_ Is that something to do with my magic? _

** _Yes._ **

Flora rested her toes against the copper rim, watching rivulets of water follow the subtle contours of her feet. She could hear the hushed murmurings of Chantry sisters in a nearby tent, and wondered if they were talking about her. She hoped that she had not been forgotten.

“Flora?”

Relieved, Flora clambered to her feet and turned towards the source of the voice; water streaming down the taut curves of her body. There followed a strangled yelp and a minor crashing sound as Alistair fell into the wall of the tent. 

_ “Maker’s Breath!” _

Flora clambered out of the bathtub and padded across the matting, leaving a dripping trail in her wake. Alistair, who had turned a shade of luminous crimson, flung himself around to face the tent entrance. Confused, she made to follow him. 

“Argh! Stop it, I beg you!” he beseeched her, frantically rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “Flora,  _ please.”  _

“Whaa,” said the perplexed Flora, used to a total lack of privacy during her tenure at the Circle. “What’s wrong?”

_ “You’re not wearing any clothes!”  _ he hissed, beads of sweat sliding down the hollow of his throat. “You’re  _ naked!” _

“I’ve been in the bath,” she explained, surprised at how short his memory was. “Remember? You brought me here to wash.”

The young officer let out a groan, blindly groping in the opposite direction until he had placed his hands on the linen sheet. With his eyes still fixed to the ceiling, he hurled it in Flora’s direction. It hit her in the face.

“Put this on, for Andraste’s sake!” 

Only once Flora had wrapped herself in the thin material did he dare to turn around. Even then she was too inadvertently provocative for his liking, waist-length ropes of wet hair hanging free as the linen clung to the gentle undulations of her body. She blinked at him with rain-coloured eyes, confused.

“I’ve found you something you to wear.” Alistair was talking to a spot somewhere over Flora’s left shoulder, his jaw rigid. “I’m afraid it’s meant for a dwarf, I’ll put it on the bench.”

“That’s fine,” replied Flora solemnly, peering behind her to see what he was looking at. “I don’t care.”

“I’ll... see you outside.” The young man made a limping exit, face still as red as a beet.  _ “Maker’s Breath.” _

Alistair attempted to regain some composure outside the tent; shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as he surveyed the night sky. Eyeing the stars as they pricked the blanket of darkness, he tried to remember the constellations that Arl Eamon had taught him as a child. 

_ Judex _ .  _ Fenrir.  _

He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm.

_ Eluvia- no, Equinor. _

There was one elongated formation of stars, so close that it seemed to rest upon the crenelated top of the Tower of Ishal. Its name eluded him, skirting on the edge of his mind.

“It’s the Boat.”

Flora had appeared at his side, her wet hair brushed straight and her Circle clothes in her arms. Alistair startled, feeling his heart seize in his chest. 

“Ah! A mage shouldn’t sneak up on people,” he reprimanded, aware of many sleepless nights to come now that her slender, white body had been branded across his mind. “And it’s not called the  _ Boat,  _ it’s called the Peraquialus.”

“We call it the  _ Boat  _ in Herring,” Flora insisted, turning her face up to the star-studded darkness. “I have the same pattern in freckles on my back.

“Don’t show me,” interrupted Alistair, sharper than he’d intended. “I’ve seen more than enough of you this evening already.”

He was guiltily aware of his snideness, but could not help himself; appalled by the betrayal of his own body. 

_ A mage! She’s a mage. Why couldn’t you lust after some farm girl, or an innkeeper’s daughter? _

Flora gave an amiable shrug, and Alistair risked a swift sideways glance towards her. For once he was not intimidated by the flawless face or the undulating slenderness, his attention caught by the clothing garbing it. 

“Ah,” he said, stifling a sudden laugh. “Oh, dear.”

He had given her a set of the plain grey woollens that the Wardens wore in the encampment, saving their distinctive striped armour for when they ventured out beyond the fortress walls. The sleeves of the tunic hung down beyond her fingers, so long that they could have been knotted together. The trousers were hoisted to just beneath her breasts, and secured with a belt that encircled her waist three times. 

“At least I found you boots that fit,” he began defensively, then realised that Flora didn’t appear at all perturbed by the excessiveness of her outfit. 

“I never get new clothing,” she breathed, earnestly. “Thank you. It’s not even my birth-day.”

“You’re welcome,” Alistair replied, oddly touched. “Come on, it’s been a long day. I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.” 

Considering both Flora’s motley ensemble, and the comments made about her by her fellow Wardens earlier, Alistair decided not to take her to their own campfire. After passing her back the staff, he led the way through the ruins of the shadowed fortress, weaving around tents, and braziers, and the various detritus of war. Remembering how he and Duncan had set off a cacophony of barks earlier, he stayed well clear of the Mabari kennels. They descended to the Warden encampment from the southern stair, avoiding the occupied campfires to the north. In contrast to the regimented rows of tents in the army quarters, the Warden accommodation sprung up haphazardly like clusters of mushrooms. Careless of rank, the senior officers had their tents amongst the juniors; all were equally worn and water-stained. Duncan’s tent was distinctive only by its larger size. The tattered banner of a silver griffon hung from a half-tumbled wall. The terrace’s uninterrupted view of the mountain pass was accompanied by a persistent northerly wind.

Alistair led the way between the dormitory tents, which were shared by eight to ten junior Wardens. From the sound of muffled snoring through the canvas, it appeared as though many had already retired for the night. 

“You’ll be staying in the junior officers’ tent,” he explained in hushed tones, stepping over a guy rope. “I’m afraid there aren’t separate quarters for men and women, like there are in the Circle. We don’t  _ have  _ any other women at the moment, as you know.”

He heard Flora crash over the same guy rope, and waited for her to regain her feet. As she did so, she surveyed the collection of tents, brow furrowing.

"Is this it?" she whispered back, teeth chattering as the wind ruffled her wet hair. "There aren't m-many of you.”

“Most of the men at Ostagar are Loghain’s - part of the Royal Army,” Alistair explained, gesturing her towards one of the larger tents. “They’re camped down on the valley floor, several thousand of them.” 

Flora didn’t really understand the difference between the Royal Army or the Grey Wardens - both seemed to be groups of heavily armoured men, who roved about the countryside killing Darkspawn. As the sound of snoring rose around them, she decided that it was not an appropriate time to ask for clarification. 

They had stopped outside a tent at the edge of a cluster, large, plain and smelling faintly of mildew. Alistair reached for the toggles keeping the canvas entrance knitted together, cursing under his breath at the lack of light. Flora thought about offering a hand - literally, since she could summon a gilded glow to her fingertips - then remembered his wariness of mages, and thought better of it. Successfully untangling the doorway, Alistair gestured for her to follow him inside. 

“You’ll be sleeping here,” he paused for a moment, clearing his throat. “Ahem; next to me. Duncan’s instructions.”

The interior of the tent was austere, filled with several plain wooden bunks without mattresses or cushions. Near the rear wall, a handful of pallets lay in a neat row. It seemed that personal belongings were nonexistent; armour was kept on stands near the beds, and any other clothing piled haphazardly on the ground. Unlike in the Chantry quarters, there was no rush matting to provide a barrier against the cold earth underfoot. 

Only two of the bunks and one pallet mattress were occupied; snoring men huddled beneath their thin regulation blanket. All but two were human; the other two, elves.

“Everyone else is by the fire,” explained Alistair in an undertone, gesturing her to the rear of the tent. “I’m afraid we’re on the pallets. Since I’m away recruiting with Duncan so often, I don’t get a good bunk. And you’re new. On the positive side, the canvas is less mouldy back there.”

_ “Shut up,”  _ snarled a voice from beneath a nearby blanket. 

Flora did not mind the primitive accommodation. Having spent her childhood sleeping on the dirt floor of her father’s fishing hut in Herring, she had never grown used to the featherbeds of the Circle. Yawning, she followed Alistair between the bunks to the back of the tent. Alistair hesitated for a moment, then reached down and heaved the pallets around on the damp stone; arranging them so that one lay directly alongside the tent wall, and the other lay between it and the rest of the tent. 

“You go on the inside,” the young officer said gruffly, avoiding her curious gaze. “Duties get assigned each morning, but you won’t get anything, not the day after your Joining.” He hesitated, risking a swift glance at her. “Although you don’t seem to be suffering any ill effects, so maybe you will.”

Flora stepped over Alistair’s pallet, noticing that he also had a distinct lack of personal possessions. She wondered if he too were from a poor family - but he spoke eloquently and with the distinct, arrogant cadence of the upper classes.

_ Hm,  _ she thought, sitting down on her lumpen pallet and reaching for her boots.  _ I don’t think he’d appreciate me asking.  _

The thin mattress did little to absorb the coldness of the damp stone below. Yawning, Flora folded the boots and placed them at the top of the pallet to act as a pillow, then began to unwind the belt. Alistair ostensibly turned his back on her to loosen the outer pieces of his armour, coughing to hide his awkwardness. She realised that he was far more embarrassed at this forced intimacy than she. As a mage, she had spent four years under constant observation by Templars and before that, she had been raised in a single-room dwelling. Privacy was a concept utterly foreign to her. 

“I’m sorry that I was naked earlier,” Flora said impulsively, hoping that he had not felt too uncomfortable. “I don’t have any manners. I’m not a respectable person.”

Alistair was sitting with his back to her, removing his boots. She saw him grin briefly, before quickly arranging his features back into careful neutrality.

“Don’t worry about it, Flora. See you in the morning. ‘Night.”

“Don’t let the weever fish bite,” Flora replied reflexively, remembering how her father had bade her goodnight. 

She turned to face the canvas wall, inhaling the musty scent of mildew. The blanket was thin and made from poor quality, scratchy wool; it reminded her pleasantly of Herring and Flora knew that she would sleep well beneath it. She was just beginning to drift off, when she heard Alistair's muffled voice through the darkness.

"Flora?"

Flora rolled back over to face the shadowy interior of the tent, clutching the blanket to her shoulders. Instead of seeing Alistair lying on the pallet alongside her, she saw a wall of hastily piled up armour: a breastplate, a pair of long greaves, a gorget. She put a finger out to nudge the makeshift barrier, fascinated by how quietly he had managed to construct it. 

“Mm?” she said to the breastplate, assuming that Alistair’s face would be somewhere behind it. 

“Should I be worried… about demons trying to possess you?” the breastplate replied, slightly awkwardly. “First Enchanter Irving warned us about it, since you’re so- well. Inexperienced.”

Flora tapped her bitten fingernails idly against the silvery metal, wondering what it was made out of.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” she replied, lowering her voice as a figure in a nearby bunk shifted and grumbled. “My spirits would never let that happen. They’ve always looked after me when I’m sleeping.”

_ And when I’m awake,  _ she thought, pulling her hand back underneath the blanket. 

The breastplate was silent for a few moments, contemplating her answer. Then a green-flecked hazel eye appeared above it, meeting her own pale gaze amidst the shadow.

“They looked after me today too,” Alistair said, recalling how three of the Hurlock’s blows - one most certainly fatal - had been deflected by her shield. “Make sure you thank them for- ”

" _ Shut your mouths!" _ hissed an ill-tempered voice from the opposite corner of the tent. "We could be fighting the bleedin’ Archdemon tomorrow and I need me beauty sleep!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally rewrote this entire chapter from scratch!


	11. Flora’s Spirits

The rest of the tent’s occupants stumbled in an hour or so later, clutching empty bottles of ritewine and telling each other to sssshhh in loud voices. By the anaemic light of the single candle, they noticed a mass of dark red hair spilling over the furthest bedroll; recalling Duncan’s promise to castrate anyone who ventured near Flora, they avoided her like the plague. Instead, they resolved to mock Alistair mercilessly for his hastily constructed barrier the next morning. 

A damp and drizzly night gave way to a surprisingly beautiful dawn. The pine trees bristled like paintbrushes on the slopes of the valley below; the sky painted itself with primrose and ochre to welcome a harvester’s sun. Even the biting northerly wind had not yet roused itself to harass the craggy slopes, or the fortress clinging to them. The banners of House Theirin hung motionless against the decaying walls.

Flora had slept for six solid hours, curled up like a prawn beneath the blanket with her face pressed against the damp canvas. The noises of the men in the nearby bunks had not disturbed her; she had always had snoring roommates at the Circle. 

“Flora.” 

She opened her eyes, still not used to the way that Duncan pronounced her name. The Warden-Commander, swathed in a dark cloak and still as a wolf lurking behind the trees, stood between the two nearest bunks. The toe of his boot rested a few inches from an oblivious Alistair’s head. The young officer had woken several times during the night to check that the barrier between himself and Flora was still intact, and was consequently exhausted. 

“Meet me outside,” said Duncan softly, watching her rub the sleep from her eyes with her fists. “I’m going to show you something.”

Flora emerged from the tent a minute later, having wrestled on her boots and navigated her way over Alistair’s makeshift barrier. More wine-red hair hung outside her braid than was contained within it. She was bare-legged beneath the dwarf’s grey shirt, the hem swinging to her knees. Duncan eyed her for a moment, curious to see if he could see any aftermath of her Joining. She was pale, but that was usual; nothing else seemed to have changed. He found himself relieved that the ritual had not marred the astonishing purity of her face. 

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, shrugging off his dark woollen cloak and folding her in it. “Ill dreams are common after a Joining. Hearing whispers, seeing strange things in the dark. All have been reported by new initiates.”

“I slept like a frog, thank you,” she replied, polite as a child wishing to make a good impression. “I didn’t hear nothing except snoring. And the only strange thing I saw was Alistair’s breastplate-barrier.”

The corner of Duncan’s mouth twitched. 

“You’ll have to forgive him his reticence,” he said, in grave tones to match her earnest solemnity. “He spent ten years in a monastery.”

Flora had no idea what a monastery was, or what reticence meant. She peered off into the distance thoughtfully, hoping that Duncan would not quiz her further. 

“Come on,” the Warden-Commander said gently, gesturing for her to follow. “I want to show you something.”

His cloak was far too big for Flora; she stood at two inches over five foot and he could span the delicate undulation of her waist with his hands. The dark woollen hem swept stray leaves in her wake as she scampered to keep pace with Duncan’s lupine stride. He headed past the uneven cluster of tents, beneath a moss-draped archway and then up the decrepit stair that clung like ivy to the edge of the fortress wall. Every so often he glanced over his shoulder to check that he had not lost her. Each time she was still there, trotting dutifully in his wake like a doughty little pony. 

They reached the top of the wall, stepping into a scene that could have come from the imagination of some Orlesian painter. The last remnants of morning mist curled around Ostagar’s ravaged parapets and battlements. Softened by dawnlight, the decaying vestiges were transformed into romantic ruin. The valley dropped sharply away beneath the parapet upon which they stood; a stony balcony which was interrupted by a bulging crag of rock. It was beside this stony protrusion that Duncan finally stopped, placing a palm against the damp granite. Flora came to a halt, several strands of hair tossed about her face by the wind. The parapet was exposed; jutting out from the solid grey mass of the fortress. Far below, the tops of the pines looked like densely packed blades of grass. 

“I wager you’ve not seen a view like this in a long time,” Duncan said quietly, recalling her four years in a Circle. “It’s best to come up here at dawn, before the mist rolls down from the mountains.”

Flora, slightly intimidated by such a vast and endless vista, took a tentative step towards the edge of the parapet. She had illicitly clambered onto the roof of the Circle tower with regularity, but this was a far more alarming drop.

“Look,” said Duncan, lifting his finger westwards. “See those violet peaks on the far horizon? Those are the Frostbacks, the highest mountains south of the Anderfels. Beyond them lies the Dales, which are claimed in name by Orlais, but roamed freely by the elven tribes.”

The Warden-Commander could have been speaking in his native Rivaini tongue for all the sense he was making to Flora. She knew nothing about the geography of Thedas, or even of Ferelden - save for the fact that her beloved Herring lay on its northern coast. Duncan suspected as much, but he was surreptitiously admiring her sculpted profile. So much of the aging Warden’s life had been stained and sordid: months - if not years in total - spent wading through the filth of the Deep Roads; the taint running dark and poisonous in his blood; his mind increasingly rotted.To look at Flora - with her flawless face and unmarred flesh - was disorientating, in the best possible way.

“To the north lie the Hinterlands,” he continued, reluctantly tearing his gaze away. “We passed through them on our way here.” 

Flora dutifully followed the cant of his chin towards where the valley mouth flattened into a patchwork of rolling green hills. She could see the line of a steam, glinting in the cool dawn light like a strand of silver thread dropped from a dressmaker’s basket. 

_There’s a haughtiness about this girl’s beauty, _thought Duncan, who had hoped that the dawn’s illumination of Flora would prompt a similar revelation in his mind. _It’s the kind of face that isn’t just some happenstance accident; but the product of generations of breeding. _

_If only I could recall where I last saw those perfect cheekbones, the line of that jaw. Damn this Blighted memory._

_If she’s from peasant stock, I’m a Qunari_.

“Which way are the Wilds?” 

Duncan realised that she was waiting for an answer, her pale eyes like clear, dark-fringed pools. 

“To the south,” he said, gesturing to the towering bulk of the fortress behind them. “You can’t see them from here. Look, the army camp lies below.”

Clutching the dark wool of his cloak about her, Flora inched tentatively towards the battlement. The wind had roused itself from its nightly slumber, plucking at the folds of the material and flapping it around her ankles. She peered over the stone wall, her gaze dropping five hundred feet to where Loghain Mac Tir’s army encampment lay in regimented rows. The orderly lines of tents, like a child laying out sticks, stood in stark contrast to the haphazard clusters of canvas on the Wardens’ terrace. She could see men and horses, tiny as ants, crawling between the columns.

The silence was broken by the harrowing scream of a bird of prey, wheeling above before breaking into a sudden dive. It crossed the air before them in a split-second flash of darkness, then disappeared out of sight in the trees below. Flora flinched, letting go of the dark wool as her startled eyes followed the bird’s targeted plunge. 

Duncan retrieved the cloak to stop himself from taking her in his arms. 

_Everything in the world is new to her,_ he thought fondly, watching the corners of her mouth turn down. 

“It’s a falcon, young sister,” he explained, returning the cloak to her shoulders. “There are a lot of them here, though fewer now that the king and his friends have decided to hunt to pass the time.” 

His gentle sarcasm was lost on Flora, who clutched the wool between her fingers with a slightly traumatised expression.

“I thought it was a seagull,” she breathed, nostrils flaring. “I hate them more than anything. They steal fish, and peck ropes, and tear open sacks with their _evil pointy faces.”_

The Warden-Commander laughed at her outrage, then remembered that he had not brought the girl up to the ramparts simply to admire the sunlight on her face. He turned away from the dawn, heading towards a stone bench that must have once served as respite for weary lookouts. The edges of the stone had been blurred from centuries of exposure to the elements. Flora followed him dutifully, taking a seat beside Duncan without hesitation. 

_Most beautiful girls are wary of men, _he thought idly, leaning back against the fortress wall with an ease that Loghain Mac Tir would never emulate. _Since this one can repulse any unwanted attention in a heartbeat, she’s never learned that vigilance._

“Flora,” he said quietly, hearing the Rivaini cadence shape her name in his mouth. “I want to know more about your magic.” 

Now the wariness came, her face closing off as though a veil had been drawn over it. She darted him a swift, anxious look from the corner of her eye; the vixen sighted by the wolf. Duncan had to resist the urge to take her hand. Instead, he lowered his voice, trying to remember how it sounded to be reassuring. 

“Flora, am I a Templar?” 

“No.”

“Am I one of the Chantry?” 

She shook her head dolefully, the cloak sliding down her shoulders. He pushed the heavy wool back up.

“My name might sound Fereldan, but I count myself as Rivaini,” he continued, not taking his gaze from her. His eyes were like coals, so dark they seemed to draw in the light around them. “Do you know anything about Rivain? Where it is?”

Flora shook her head again, woefully aware of her own ignorance. Duncan saw her droop and hastened on, conjuring a reference that she would know. 

“What’s north of the Waking Sea?”

“The Marcher lands,” replied Flora, using the archaic name preferred by peasants. “You can see them if the skies are clear. Which is not a lot.”

“Well, north of the Marcher lands lies Antiva,” said Duncan, using his finger to draw a map in the air. “And north of that lies Rivain.Three hundred leagues away.”

He smiled at her open-mouthed astonishment. Her world, until so recently, had been a narrow one. 

“Anyway, _alva_. One thing that is unique about Rivain is how it treats their mages. There are no Templars, and there are no Circles. Mages are respected - venerated, even.”

Duncan realised that she probably did not know what _venerated_ meant, and explained that it meant _appreciated_, which was close enough. Flora was still wary, but less so now; her eyes wide at the prospect of a land where her kind were not persecuted and punished. Her fingers folded pleats in the dark wool cloak; the nails efficiently bitten to keep them short. By now the sun had almost fully risen; wreathed in mist like sea foam, it perched on the horizon as though summoning the effort to heave itself higher. The fog had begun to roll down the sides of the valley, drowning the army encampment below until only the very tallest pennants were visible. The Warden-Commander knew that he needed to return to his encampment, to oversee the assignation of the day’s duties and to hear the reports of returning scouts. Alistair, whom he had tasked with watching over Flora, would be fretting at her absence. 

Yet he made no move to leave, tapping an absentminded rhythm against his knee.

“Rivaini mages are free,” he said idly, wondering if she was a virgin. “They live amongst everyone else, using their magic to assist others. Some offer their services as bodyguards, others make a living as healers. Some claim the power of prophecy, and charge for their predictions.”

By now Flora had twisted at the narrow waist to face him fully, astonished. Her eyes scrutinised his in half-disbelief that such a place should exist. 

“When I lived in Herring,” she breathed, fingers twisted in the wool of his cloak. “Before the Templars caught me. I healed the frost-cough and mended the sailors washed up on the beach. No one paid me, though. They didn’t like me much, red hair is bad luck to fishermen.”

Her head dropped, a line furrowing itself across her brow. As much as she longed to return to Herring, it had never truly accepted her. Once she had cured their children of frost-cough, mothers snatched them away. Men averted their faces when she repaired hands crushed between boat and rock. Then a thick rope of her own burgundy hair rose before her eyes; held appraisingly between Duncan’s gloved thumb and forefinger. 

“Hair such as this could never bode ill,” he murmured, deliberately casual. “Tell me about your spirits.”

“Are you going to make fun of me? Or call me mad? Or say that I’m possessed?” The wariness was back.

_She’s had some bad experiences in the Circle_, Duncan thought to himself, absentmindedly fingering the strand of hair. _No wonder she’s reluctant to talk about her magic._

“I’m Rivaini, not Fereldan,” he reminded her, shifting position on the unforgiving bench as his body reminded him that he was also no longer young. “I once knew a spirit healer in Dairsmuid who had the aid of a powerful spirit. She used to spend most of her time arguing with them.”

Flora was silent for a long moment, gazing pensively at her boots. Below them, the fortress was starting to rouse itself for the day. Barking echoed from the Mabari kennels. Men called out to one another about prosaic things: bathwater, breaking their fast, whether the blacksmith was awake. The smell of cooking meat drifted along the battlements; Duncan’s tastebuds were so taint-dulled that he could not identify the animal of origin. Yet again, the fear that he was no longer physically capable of battling an Archdemon curdled like bile in his stomach. 

To distract himself he caught the underneath of her chin with a finger; tilting her face towards him. 

“Flora,” he repeated, low and impassioned. “Tell me about your spirits.”

Slightly mesmerised by the intensity of his gaze, Flora relented. At first she spoke with hesitancy, growing in confidence when it became clear that he was not going to judge her. 

“There are two of them,” she said, barely above a whisper. “One helps me shield, and the other helps me heal. The one that helps me shield is the one that speaks to me most of the time. They were a general when they were alive. When I see them in the Fade, they’re wearing armour, but it doesn’t look like the armour that anyone here wears. I think they must have been a general a long time ago.”

Duncan kept his expression carefully neutral, although his mind was racing. 

“The other one doesn’t speak much, though I feel how they’re feeling,” Flora continued, warming to the subject. “They’re always kind to me, and they guide me when I’m healing. The general tells me off a lot.”

“Why?”

She smiled at him; and the curve of her mouth broke the cool imperiousness of her face like sun breaking through the cloud.

“I’m not intelligent,” she replied, honestly. “I don’t know half of the historical things that they mention. I don’t make good conversation. Sometimes I fall asleep when they’re trying to teach me.”

Duncan only half-listened to this litany of faults. Part of him - the Rivaini - was fascinated by the girl’s unusual connection with ‘her’ spirits, and the potency of the energy that they sourced. The other part - the man - was consumed by a heat so unfamiliar that it took a moment for him to identify it. 

_Desire,_ he thought to himself, astonished. _I thought the taint had withered the part of me that lusted to nothing.   
_

Then, regretfully:

_I have to return this girl to the camp. _

He rose, putting some much-needed space between himself and her. There was a dull ache in his lower back; a voiceless reminder that he should not be sitting motionless on stone benches for too long at his age. The dewy morning mist had solidified into a silvery mass that clung to the ruined spires and parapets of the old fortress. The bottom of the valley, still submerged in fog, looked like a narrow, slate-grey sea.

“Thank you for telling me about them,” he said, risking a swift glance over his shoulder as Flora rose to her feet. “I hope your spirits don’t mind.”

“Oh, they said that I could,” replied Flora blithely, bundling his cloak in her arms. “They gave me permission.”

_Ha_, thought Duncan to himself, amused. _So it wasn’t your powers of persuasion that caused her to yield. _

“Come on, sister-warden,” he said, not unkindly. “I ought to return you to Alistair before he gets too frantic.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so we appreciate the original DA daddy Duncan in this story :D I wanted to evoke elements of the man he’d been when he was younger (in one of the books, can’t remember which one), where he shags a redhead mage in a Circle, and has a reputation for being a good lover. Hohoho
> 
> Also, the POV here is mostly Duncan - I don’t stick to any one POV in my writing, but I wanted to suggest that Flora is not yet the protagonist - she’s more a secondary character! The POV will become more static and fixed on her after the battle of Ostagar (fucking RIP daddy D D:)


	12. Getting Into A Routine

Over the following weeks, the fortress began to escalate preparations for the next assault against the Darkspawn. More soldiers arrived from Denerim, joining the encampment in the valley below. A contingent of Surface dwarves assembled a series of trebuchets on Ostagar's outer walls. As Kingsway gave way to Harvestmere, the weather quickly and noticeably cooled. Early morning hoarfrost began to form on the crumbling stone walls, and those on dawn duty could see their breath crystallise in the air before them. Everyone within the fortress reacted to the approaching assault in different ways. Some men sought comfort in the Maker, and the Chantry services grew more crowded. Others – Wardens as well as regular soldiers – became more dependent on the bottle. Duncan reprimanded those he caught drinking on duty, but he did not otherwise condemn them for seeking comfort where they were able.

To Flora’s relief, she was quickly assigned a routine to occupy her time at Ostagar. Still overwhelmed by the vastness of the world outside the Circle - even during her childhood in Herring, she had never strayed far from the village - a schedule helped her find familiarity amongst strangeness. Duncan, oddly reluctant to send her beyond the ruined walls of the fortress, found Flora duties that kept her from straying too far from his supervisory eye. In the morning, she and Alistair would go down to the training ground; where he would spar with other recruits or practice strikes on wooden dummies. She would shield them against these blows, trying to follow Alistair’s rapid and unpredictable choice of target. In the afternoon, she was assigned to the infirmary; run by Chantry priestesses and located in a small, isolated courtyard below the Wardens’ terrace. If Duncan pinned back the canvas fold of his tent entrance, he could - and often did - look down on the sick and wounded, and the redhead kneeling beside them. Any Chantry sister contemplating cruelty to the young mender in their midst would soon be dissuaded by the Warden-Commander’s warning stare.

In the evening, men and Wardens would gather around the campfire; along with the occasional royal soldier who wanted to escape the general’s disapproval. They often numbered more than two hundred so over a dozen campfires were scattered at the rear of the terrace, blazing amber and ochre against the ruined stone. The lucky few sat on benches scavenged from decrepit living quarters, others sat on chunks of fallen masonry, most sat on the cobblestones. Downing multiple bottles of ritewine - the more senior, the more resistant their tainted bodies were - they exchanged stories; sometimes grim, often macabre. The bolder Wardens were the ones who had survived the most, and they had seen sights fit to make the blood curdle in one’s veins. Duncan, who had seen the worst of all, rarely contributed. Unlike Loghain Mac Tir, who never socialised with the troops, the Warden-Commander was happy to sit and listen to his men; smiling or offering the occasional remark. The ritewine tasted like ashes on his tainted tongue, and so he barely drained a bottle over the course of an evening. As the most senior Warden present, he was afforded the luxury of a three-pronged stool. Alistair, lounging on the cobbles nearby, was joined by a cross-legged Flora; the two sitting near Duncan’s feet like favoured children.

Duncan had tried his best to adopt an avuncular approach towards his new mender; aware of the scurrilous whispers flitting around the fortress. Ironically, he had behaved himself impeccably and not laid a hand on her. Alistair had heard rumours, but closed his ears to them; Flora was utterly oblivious. Instead, the Warden-Commander preoccupied himself with prying more details from Flora about her spirits; learning that they had been in her life for as long as she could remember, that they guarded her from demons in the Fade, and that the more powerful one was the spirit that assisted her mending. Flora, delighted to discuss her spirits without scepticism or suspicion, babbled like a released dam in her throaty, lowborn tongue. 

Alistair, conversely, was in turmoil. Jealousy that their new recruit was a source of such interest for their commander mingled with confusion that Duncan would take such interest in a  _ mage -  _ one of the Maker’s forsaken! He had not dared to take down the breastplate barrier between their bunks; reaching gingerly over with a long arm to rouse her at the arrival of dawn. The young officer was also annoyed that the breath still caught in his throat when he caught sight of her unexpectedly.

_ Surely I should have grown used to that face by now,  _ he chided himself.  _ It’s just… nice looking, that’s all.  _

On one crisp autumn morning, cold enough that the dawn frost still edged the cobbles with silver, Alistair and Flora took up their usual spot in the corner of the training courtyard. Most of the other wooden dummies were in use, falling victim to assault by hammer, mace and blade. Arrows embedded themselves with dull thuds in targets placed against the courtyard’s crumbling southern wall. Despite the lack of space, there was a reluctance to venture near the corner occupied by the two junior Wardens. Three dwarves, a race renowned for their suspicion of magic, chose to share a battered training dummy between them, rather than use the one close to Flora. Alistair was torn between indignation - on behalf of his sister-warden - and quiet empathy, understanding their wariness. 

As a result, Flora and Alistair had three training dummies to themselves. Alistair, his own shield propped against a crumbling wall, had positioned himself between them. With the swiftness of youth, he was administering - very light - blows to each dummy at random; striking at their sightless faces and torsos. Flora, perched precariously on the wall with her toes wedged into the mud, summoned shields around each one in turn. Alistair had learnt the hard way that he needed to make his assault a delicate one, lest he wrench his sword-arm against the steely resolve of the barrier. 

“Poor Porrick,” she observed, bitten fingers twisting idly in her lap as a shield sprung up around the leftmost dummy. “You keep going for his manly bits.” 

Alistair, who did not appreciate her serene and unruffled state in the face of his sweating redness, scowled. Without giving her warning he struck two of them rapidly in a row, letting out a yell of triumph as his blade struck true on the second. 

“Ha! Killed Simon.” 

Flora almost fell off the wall with indignation.

“It’s  _ Seamus,”  _ she corrected, outraged. “And you didn’t say that you’d be attacking  _ two.” _

“Well, the Darkspawn won’t be giving any warnings,” replied the supercilious Alistair, triumphant at having finally landed a blow. “You ought to be ready for  _ anything!  _ Oh, that’s mature. Are you sure that you’re nineteen, not nine?”

This was in response to Flora sticking her tongue out at him. The next moment, shields had blossomed around all three of the dummies simultaneously. Alistair gawped, while Flora gloated.

“You never said that you could shield  _ more than one thing at once!  _ Why didn’t you do that from the beginning?”

“Ha ha ha,” said Flora, then lost her balance and fell off the wall. “Ow.”

Alistair made no response; the air prickled with wary silence. When Flora emerged from behind the wall, a pair of their fellow Wardens were standing nearby, armoured and armed. Their striped tunics were their only similarity: one man was bearded and thin as a blade, the other bald and barrel-bellied. The expression on their faces veered between contempt and amusement; laced with something else as they laid eyes on Flora. 

Flora, dusting herself off, reflected that although the Wardens were nominally a  _ brotherhood;  _ these two did not appear very familial. She noticed that Alistair still had his sword in hand; swinging it with deliberate casualness near his thigh. 

“Morning, Gehan,” he said, lightly. “Jonty. Need anything?”

“Just on our way to accompany a scouting patrol,” replied Jonty, his chest puffed with self-importance. “King Cailan is due back from the hunt tonight, and we need to make sure his route is clear.” 

Alistair suppressed a sigh: the king’s presence inadvertently put the entire fortress on a half-manic edge. 

“Well, have fun,” he said, spotting that Flora had come to stand, open-mouthed, at his side. The eyes of both men swung towards her; Gehan pointed a gloved finger.

“Mage! Want to come with us?” he suggested, suppressing a leer. “We have need of your... services in the Wilds.”

He bisected his question with a deliberate pause. Alistair stiffened with indignation, Flora - as usual - was oblivious to the insinuation. 

“Man!” she replied, having forgotten his name. “No, I’m supposed to stay here.”

“Are you certain?” the leaner one wheedled, unsuccessfully suppressing a smirk. “We could kill a few Hurlocks together. Great bonding experience!”

“Mm,” replied Flora vaguely, losing interest and wondering when the cook-tent would allow her early access to the great cauldrons of vegetable stew that served as lunch for the masses. The nobility had their own cooks and camp followers; the scent of roasted meat often wafted down to a chorus of wistful inhaling nostrils below.

“Gehan,” Alistair interjected, steel beneath the lightness of his tone. “Didn’t Duncan make some  _ comment  _ about… well, I’m sure you remember. I wouldn’t test his patience if I were you.”

Gehan scowled, shooting the junior officer a dark look from beneath bristling eyebrows. His tone veered from cajoling into contemptuous, a cloud settling across his face.

“Didn’t want her anyway,” he retorted, defensively. “Is it true that she can only cast two spells?  _ Pathetic.  _ No wonder she was recruited to be the Warden-Commander’s bedwarmer. One trick pony!”

He made a mocking neighing sound; his companion stamped his boots on the dusty ground. Flora, who had endured four years of mockery at the Circle for her limited range, gave an ambivalent shrug. 

“She’s not Duncan’s - oh, just  _ go away,”  _ snapped Alistair, hoping that the flush had not crept beyond his collar. “I hope you run into a pack of Hurlocks.”

Before Gehan left, he deliberately knocked the head from one of the training dummies with the edge of his shield. Smirking, he sauntered away across the courtyard; his companion scurrying in his wake. 

Flora looked down at the dummy’s featureless wooden head, which had rolled to a halt near her toe.

“Seamus has been  _ decapitulated,”  _ she intoned solemnly, reaching down to retrieve it. “Rest in peace, Seamus. We will not remember you.”

Her dolorous comment roused Alistair from a fog of irritation. Forgetting that she was a mage for a moment, he grinned at her and took the head; wedging it back in place atop the dummy. 

“Seamus has been resurrected,” he said cheerfully, wondering if there was any truth in Gehan’s comment about Duncan and bedwarmers. He knew that Duncan appreciated beauty, and rarity, and Flora embodied both. On the other hand, her inexperience made her seem younger than nineteen years; and he could not see their commander taking advantage of such immaturity. “Praise the Maker, it’s a miracle!” 

Flora was so pleased that he was being kind to her that she beamed back at him. He blinked rapidly, the hollow of his throat pinkening, then swiftly averted his eyes.

“...Shall we go get some lunch?” 

“Yes,” she said, then, thoughtfully, “what’s a bedwarmer?”

Alistair felt beads of sweat breaking out across his forehead. 

“A stone that you warm in the fire,” he improvised, quickly. “And put in your bed to… heat it up.” 

Flora looked confused for a moment, her pale eyes fixed unblinking on his. A trickle of perspiration ran down Alistair’s long, fine-hewn nose.

“But I can’t heat anything up,” she replied at last, dolefully. “I ain’t that kind of mage.”

“Never mind,” her brother-warden said, desperate for the conversation to be over. “Gehan is an idiot. Come on, let’s go and get some stew.”

An anaemic autumnal sun yielded without resistance to evening; the stars pricking through a wash of peach and palest lilac. A single moon was visible, a ghost of a crescent visible above the distant foothills of the Frostbacks. Ostagar, never a cheerful place, took on an especial dourness at nighttime. Shadows draped themselves like funerary banners over crumbling walls; a mildewed dampness hung in the air and coated the lungs with each inhalation. King Cailan, son of Maric and ostensible leader of the efforts against the Darkspawn, had been absent from the fortress for the past fortnight. He did not dread the arrival of autumn - he had braziers and fur-lined cloaks and piping hot meal stew on demand - but relished the beginning of the hunting season. While his troops drilled and patrolled and shivered with nerves and cold in their windblown tents, their king cantered through the forested valley with a pack of Mabari tearing around him; terrorising the local wildlife. The spoils of the hunt had arrived with his retinue: three horned stags, eight roe-deer, and a grey-whiskered boar. Cailan enjoyed a jest: carried proudly at the head of his procession were a half-dozen nugs skewered on a lance.

Once the king had been bathed and dressed in the Theirin crimson and gold, he announced that he wished to address the men of Ostagar, alongside his two commanders. The largest courtyard, which in Cailan’s absence had been converted for more useful purpose, was swiftly cleared and turned back into a space for a rapt audience to gather. A wooden platform had been assembled at one end, draped with the assorted banners of Theirin and Ferelden. These had been stored improperly and had to be hung strategically to hide the mildew. A dozen vast braziers lined each side of the courtyard, casting a shifting pool of light over the piecemeal cobblestones. 

Not all of the troops gathered at Ostagar could fit into the courtyard, so the leaders of each division chose a selection of those who could be trusted not to fall asleep. Cailan, resplendent in golden armour, paced back and forth across the creaking wood and gesticulated at a handpicked group of several hundred weary, dutiful men. He was flanked by two far less glamorous figures: the Royal General, clad in dull pewter and sporting his usual scowl, and an expressionless but keen-eyed Warden-Commander. 

“SOON,” bellowed Cailan, his gauntlet catching the firelight as he thrust a fist into the air. “Soon, our enemy will make their final assault. Soon, they will feel the true might of the Fereldan blade!” 

The men in the audience silently cursed their respective captains for inflicting such a trial upon them. One dwarf had fallen asleep on his feet, swaying rhythmically to the droning rise and fall of the monologue while two men struggled to support him at either elbow. 

“And that day will go down in history,” Cailan continued, his face alight with sheer, glowing excitement. “It will become  _ legend.  _ And my name will be remembered FOREVER as the man who saved Ferelden, equal - if not exceeding! - the legacy of my father!”

Beside him, the Royal General ground his teeth, his sallow face waxy in the firelight.

Thirty feet above the wooden platform Alistair and Flora were leaning over the crumbling ramparts, resting their elbows on the stone. This provided them with a good vantage point across the courtyard; with a view of both the platform and the weary audience. Alistair had abandoned his sentry position on the southern rampart: there was no sign of movement in the valley below, except for the fires burning in the army camp; pinpricks of flickering heat amidst the shadow. 

Flora, her elbows propped on the lichen-covered wall, was peering at the golden head beneath the crown, gilded armour gleaming brilliantly in the torchlight.

“That’s the king?” she asked in a whisper, although her words were barely audible in the face of Cailan’s bellowing. “The yellow one?”

“Mm,” replied Alistair vaguely, casting a suspicious eye at the gathering clouds overhead. “Maker’s Breath, it had better not start raining. I’ve left my socks out to dry.”

“The king of Ferelden?”

“Yes.”

Flora leaned so far over the ramparts that an alarmed Alistair gripped her by the belt, envisioning his sister-warden crashing onto the platform in front of a gobsmacked Cailan and audience.

"The people of Ferelden shall have no more cause to tremble in their beds at night! Our nation’s children shall grow and live to be old men and women, free from the fear of Blight. I, your King, shall achieve this for you!"

“He’s not my king,” she observed, confused. “Wait, what does a king do?” 

“He  _ is  _ your king,” corrected Alistair, tightening his grip on Flora’s belt as she peered over the crumbling stone parapet. “He’s  _ everyone’s  _ king. Well, if you’re a  _ human _ . The dwarves have their own king, and the elves - who knows who leads them? Anyway, a king is in charge. He tells everyone what to do.”

“He’s never told me what to do,” replied Flora, eyes 

wandering over Cailan’s finely hewn features and curling, arrogant mouth. "He’s never been to Herring. If he showed up and tried to tell the fishermen what to do, they’d throw rocks at him. Hm, he looks a bit like you."

There was a fractional pause before Alistair gave a little laugh.

"Nonsense. I'm much more handsome than Cailan Theirin."

Flora tilted her head and gave him an appraising look.

“Yes, you are,” she said, solemnly. “Your chin is nicer.” 

The wind changed direction. carrying the rest of the king’s speech towards the Tower of Ishal. To a pink-cheeked Alistair’s relief, Flora had returned her attention to the platform. Her gaze fell on Duncan, and she thought that he looked weary, and older than he had done when he had first recruited her. As if sensing her scrutiny, the Warden-Commander lifted his chin, raising his eyes to the ramparts. The silver griffin on his breastplate seemed to move against the reflected firelight. She waved at him surreptitiously from above the battlement; the corner of his mouth flickered. Cailan, who had spotted Duncan’s slight angling of the head, followed his gaze. His eyes fell on Flora, who was now whispering something to Alistair; who had to stoop to close the foot’s difference in their height. At once, a look of almost predatory hunger formed on his handsome, weak-chinned face, as though Flora were one of the hapless roe-deer in the forest. After a moment he roused himself, and continued his speech with similar bravado.

_ Ah, fuck me,  _ Duncan thought irritably, having noticed the king’s sudden captivation.  _ Can I threaten the king with castration like I did Gehan? _

Oblivious to Cailan’s interest, Flora was looking at the third man on the platform. He stood slightly apart, and seemed as though he deeply resented being forced to attend. Greying hair was pulled back from a grim, gaunt face, while a long scar twisted the corner of his mouth. He was listening to the king’s impassioned speech with a sceptical expression, lips pressed tightly together.

“We saw him when we arrived here,” she breathed, recalling his scowling presence. “He’s from the north, like me.”

"That’s Loghain Mac Tir- ”

_ “A northern name!” _

“Yes,” continued Alistair, frowning at her interruption. “He’s the teyrn of Gwaren, commander of the Royal Army, and Cailan’s father-in-law. He only enjoys one of those positions - guess which!”

Flora had just spotted Gehan standing at the periphery of the crowd below, and was wondering whether to fling a clump of moss at his head.

“Hm,” she said, returning her attention to the platform. “Dunno. He’s looking at the king like he hates him.”

“You’re probably not wrong,” replied Alistair, drily. “And he’s not a great fan of being a teyrn, either.”

“Ugh! Who would be?” Flora pulled a face: she had little time for those who claimed elevation through blood. 

“Come on, it’s starting to rain and I want to rescue my socks.”

The drizzle only lasted a half-candle, but it was sufficient to drive most of Ostagar’s inhabitants inside their tents for an early night. Fortunately, Cailan had finished his speech quickly and fled from the encroaching rain, scuttling like a golden beetle through the maze of terraces, courtyards and decrepit stairways with his entourage in hot pursuit. Instead of a half-dozen fires in the Grey Warden encampment, only two burned away in defiance of night’s gloomy shroud. 

Alistair, trailing a yawning Flora and still secretly hoping to be accepted into his brethren’s ranks, was seated at one. He took tentative gulps of ritewine, listening to a grizzled dwarf describe an ambush by a Genlock; gesticulating with an ominous finger towards his missing ear. Flora sat cross-legged at Alistair’s side, darning a hole in his sock with a needle and thread. She did not drink the traditional beverage of the Wardens: alcohol purified itself into water and yeast on her tongue. There had been a few mocking  _ neighs  _ as she sat down: it seemed as though Gehan’s  _ one tricky pony  _ nickname had spread.

Duncan joined them a short time later, having escaped Cailan’s company. The firelight could not disguise the deep furrows across his tawny forehead, nor the shadows carved beneath his eyes. Still, he summoned the energy to laugh at a joke from the dwarf and accepted a bottle of ale, downing it in three long draws. Placing it on the dirt at his feet, he noticed Flora busily mending a pair of woollen socks that were far beyond length of her own small feet. 

“Young sister,” he said, amused. “I hope you’ll be getting some recompense from Alistair for such generosity.”

Flora turned her face up to him, the flames transforming the dark red of her hair into burnished copper. 

“It reminds me of mending nets back home,” she replied, somewhat wistfully. “I don’t mind it.”

_ He looks older. And weary, like he’s spent all day hauling boats up the beach.  _

Duncan, mindful not to look too long upon her firelit face, was about to ask his captain for tomorrow’s patrol schedule when Flora tapped her fingers gently against his knee. 

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t be your bedwarmer,” she said solemnly, regretful that she could not heat up stones to warm Duncan’s blankets. “I don’t have the  _ right skills.” _

Alistair almost fell into the fire. For the first time in a long time, Duncan was lost for words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewrote this entire chapter because the 2016 version was SHIT!!!!


	13. An Encounter With The King

The next day brought a mist of drizzle so fine that it broke over the crumbling ramparts like waves against a rocky shore. The sun could barely muster the will to rise, sulking behind a silvery pallor of cloud. Fog rolled down the mountainous slopes, drowning Ostagar and submerging the valley below. Such gloom necessitated the continued fuelling of the braziers lining the fortress; their amber gleam swallowed by a mass of creeping shadow. The nobles resident on the upper terrace decided to stay within their tents, disheartened by such a joyless day. The sounds of laughing and breaking fast drifted down to the grooms, the servants, the scribes and the soldiers who ploughed grimly through the mist below, arms full. 

Alistair and Flora parted ways after the third bell after noon: he was to meet with a handful of new Warden recruits from the nearby village of Crossroads, she was to spend several hours in the infirmary. Ignoring the sound of several mocking _ neighs _ \- the one-trick pony cognomen had stuck - she put a pear into her pocket and made her way towards the lower terrace. The matron greeted her with wary suspicion - Flora’s method of healing was efficient, but _ deeply unnatural _ \- and directed her towards a row of wheezing men on pallets. They had been struck down with _ frostcough, _a condition brought on by inhaling too much damp air. Flora, as a daughter of the northern coast, recognised it immediately.

It took two candle-lengths to heal all twelve men. The process was slowed by the matron’s continual interruptions: praying, waving censors of incense, and reciting verses of the Chant in sonorous tones. Each time that the priestess swooped in, flapping long sleeves like a great white goose, Flora sat back on her heels and ground her teeth with quiet frustration. Duncan was absent from his upper balcony - preparing the Joining for those who would survive the Wilds with Alistair - and so she dared not protest. 

Once Flora was satisfied that all traces of frostcough had been purged from the recesses of each lung, she washed her hands in the basin and dried them on her breeches. When the matron’s back was turned, she did what she always did at the end of each session in the infirmary: surreptitiously pour some of the Chantry’s sacred wine over the tools used by the non-magic healers. 

_ I still don’t understand why I have to do this, _ she thought fretfully, glancing over her shoulder to check that the matron was still bellowing at a sweating underling with an armful of linens. _ The wine is meant to be used for offerings. I’ll be in SO much trouble if they see me! _

** _Bah! It’ll be put to far better use cleansing these primitive tools, _ ** replied the bossier of her spirits. ** _ And far more conducive to the mending of their patients._ **

_ You know I don’t understand words like that. _

** _‘Helpful’._ **

_ Ooh. _

Wandering away from the infirmary, Flora was so preoccupied by the conversation with her spirits that she almost bumped into a breastplate that shone like a summer sun. Her eyes followed the breastplate upwards - taking in ornately carved gold, glimpses of crimson silk beneath, a weak chin and a handsome, dissolute face above it. The eyes were clear and blue, the braided hair the bright yellow of harvested corn. He wore no crown, but Flora - with a sinking feeling in the pit of her belly - recognised him immediately.

_ Noooooo, _ she thought to herself, eyes bulging. _ Nooooo! _

“Greetings, my lady,” Cailan Theirin drawled, a smile playing on his handsome lips. “So, _ this _is what Duncan has been hiding away from me? Come into the light so that I can see you better. I confess, I haven’t been able to banish your face from my mind since I glimpsed you on the battlements.”

Flora felt a shroud of deepest gloom settle upon her. Not only could she barely make sense of his highborn Denerim accent, but she had no idea how to act in the presence of a king. She was miserably aware that she had not bowed, and thought that it was perhaps too late to do so now - and, _ did girls bow? Did they perform some other ritual of respect? _ If they did, she was entirely ignorant of it.

With a heavy heart she followed the king towards a nearby brazier. Two guards, clad in full helmets and armed with long, viciously-bladed pikes, kept at a close range. They reminded Flora of the Templars, at the Circle, which did not make her feel any better. Once they had stepped within the egg-yolk gleam of the brazier, Cailan took her by the chin as though she were one of his Mabari; angling her face towards the light. Flora mutely let him tilt her head this way and that, his gloved fingers cold against her skin.

“Flawless,” he said at last, in wonder. “Fancy finding such a rare beauty here in this forsaken dump.”

His light blue gaze moved over her features once again, assessing the fox-fur red of the hair, the full and sulky mouth, the haughty line of the cheekbone. A furrow creased itself across the king’s brow, and something flickered within his appraising stare. 

“What’s your name?” he asked as though in a dream, his fingers still gripping her chin. “And where are you from? I could swear that I… that we’ve met before.”

Cailan trailed off, scouring the depths of his memory. 

“Flora,” said Flora, glumly. “From Herring, on the Storm Coast. We ain’t never met.”

The king was rudely yanked from his reverie, jaw dropping and eyes widening. First, he was astounded at her name _ \- _ one of the most bland, prevalent and unremarkable names within Ferelden. Every third girl born to a peasant family was named _ Flora. _ Secondly, her accent was so unmistakably _ common, _ that there could be no _ question _of them ever having met before. After all, the king moved in circles far loftier than those of a rustic labourer. 

“Perhaps it’s better if you don’t talk,” Cailan said hastily: her hoarse, flat northern vowels reminded him of his father-in-law. “Come on, let’s go for a drink in my tent.” 

_ Let’s not, _ thought Flora sourly as the king spun on his polished heel and strode off through the gloom. _ Let’s NOT do that. _

Still, she saw no alternative but to trail after him; the two guards were eyeing her expectantly and - at heart - Flora was an obedient girl. Fortunately, she had had practice at keeping pace with long strides after weeks of following Alistair, who at six feet and a handful of inches, towered above her.

The occupants of the camp scattered deferentially before Cailan, bowing as they made hasty retreats. One scribe dropped a stack of rolled parchment in shock as he nearly collided with the king beneath an ivy-draped archway. To Cailan’s credit, he did not chide the man; merely laughed and instructed one of his guards to assist in retrieving the damp parchment.

The Royal encampment was situated within the ruins of the old keep, perched high above Ostagar’s outer ramparts. Housed within three crumbling walls on the south-facing side of the fortress, the residence of the privileged enjoyed protection from the bitter winds, and took most of the meagre autumnal sunlight. Only accessible via a single, heavily guarded stairway; it was also the most defensible location within Ostagar. Should a flood of Darkspawn breach the ramparts, drawbridge and inner walls, Ferelden’s wealthiest would have the best chance of survival.

The two soldiers at the base of the stair clearly did not want to allow Flora access; they were aware that she was a _ mage, _ and one raw and inexperienced. Flora shared their sentiment: she had absolutely no desire to accompany Cailan to his tent. Unfortunately, the king’s will superseded all. The soldiers stood aside - _ at least, _ they thought, _ she did not have her staff - _and Flora trudged up the mildew-slick steps in Cailan’s wake. 

The braziers allowed glimpses of brightly coloured silks in jewel-coloured hues: crimson, emerald and ruby. The nobility resided in gaudy structures that hung from substantial wooden scaffolding, multi-chambered and often with their own cooking quarters attached. There would be nobody digging a latrine trench or prodding a damp campfire to life in this section of the camp. The sound of laughter and lute-playing echoed from one of the sprawling tents; the smoky, rich smell of some roasted animal hung in the air. The setting brought to mind a gathering at a Satinalia tourney, rather than a war party. 

Cailan strode through the shadows as though expecting them to part before him; brilliant and golden in his burnished armour. Flora trailed after him, wondering if she could feign an episode of sudden madness.

_ What if I do my best jellyfish impression? That used to go down well in Herring. _

** _No, it didn’t._ **

_ Everyone loved it! _

** _They did not. _ **

Two yawning guards stood to attention outside a vast tent draped with Theirin pennants. The canvas entrance was drawn open with a thickly woven rope, and the king stalked through without pausing. His expectation that Flora would still be behind him was absolute. 

Flora followed the armour-clad man through a series of tented chambers, each individual section larger than the dwelling owned by her family in Herring. One ‘room’ housed a vast oak slab of a table, circled with velvet-backed chairs. Another was crammed with wooden boards, propped precariously against the canvas and pinned with a selection of maps. The next was lined on both sides with suits of armour, each bearing the distinctive Theirin crest. 

The final chamber was hung with animal skins, and smelt of fresh pine. A sleepy Mabari thumped his tail against a woven rug as they entered; another dozed on top of a fur-strewn four-postered bed. A host of bottles crowded a low table, ringed with reclining couches upholstered in faded crimson. Flora’s attention went first to the freshly slaughtered, forlorn-looking animal heads propped on posts in the far corner; then to the vast bed in the centre of the chamber. She had spent the first fifteen years of her life sleeping on a mouldy pallet on the sand; the narrow, rock-hard bunk assigned to her at the Circle had seemed a luxury. 

Cailan caught sight of Flora eyeing the bed and smirked, misinterpreting her interest. He called for assistance while striding towards the table; a beleaguered-looking elf came in and began to remove the king’s armour. 

“Have a seat, my lady,” the king called over his shoulder as Flora shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I shan’t be long.”

Flora obediently perched herself on the very edge of a chair upholstered in plum, worried that her grubby clothing might stain the fabric. She plucked at a loose thread on her sleeve, then looked up into the sad, glassy eyes of a decapitated stag.

“That one took six hours to chase down,” boasted Cailan, lifting his arms as the servant removed his breastplate. “Led us on a merry dance through the valley; almost lost us at the river. _ I _took my horse straight across the shallows, loosed an arrow blind - and struck it in the haunches. My hound, Growler, did the rest.”

The Mabari on the bed gave a sleepy rumble of acknowledgement. Flora, who felt as though she too had been hunted down by the king, commiserated with the stag. She turned her gaze to the bed, which seemed more fit for a brothel than a war camp. 

“You could make a good fire out of that,” she said, recalling blustery nights on northern beaches. 

“What?” said Cailan, so distressed by the commonness of her accent that he barely paid attention to her comment. The elf, kneeling to unbuckle the king’s greaves, smirked. 

“The bed,” Flora explained, turning her grave, pale eyes to his. “You don’t need them posts at the corners, or those boards at each end. You could make a good fire with ‘em.”

The king physically recoiled: her low, slightly hoarse northern cadence reminded him unpleasantly of his father-in-law.

“It’s better for me if you don’t speak,” he said, kindly. “You’re so beautiful; you don’t _ need _ to do anything else.”

He clearly believed this to be a compliment. Flora stopped talking. She watched the elf gather up Cailan’s discarded armour, arranging it piece by gilded piece on a nearby stand. As he did so, the king - now clad in expensively dyed woollens - poured himself a generous serving of wine. As soon as the elf had finished, and departed with a bow, Cailan turned back to Flora with a brilliant smile and a ruby-studded tankard.

“This is a fine Minrathous vintage, dating from 9:05,” he explained, waving the bottle in his spare hand. “My steward imports wines from all across Thedas - I’m somewhat of a _ connoisseur.” _

Any Fereldan noble would have noted, with some surprise, the use of the Orlesian term. Flora understood less than half of the king’s explanation. She gazed mutely at the bottle, noticing the cobwebs clinging to the base. 

“Mm,” she mumbled, remembering that she had been banned from speaking. Cailan offered her the tankard and she took it gingerly, aware of her body’s reaction to alcohol. 

“Try it,” he ordered, removing the gilded band from his head and dropping it with a casual clatter onto a sideboard. 

Flora took an obedient gulp, filling her mouth with pungent sweetness. Then, almost immediately, the alcohol in the wine broke down into yeast and sugar, clinging up the inside of her mouth. She swallowed it with some difficulty, pulling a face. The king looked astonished. 

“You don’t like it?”

She grimaced, feeling a trickle of water running down her chin. Cailan stared at her for a moment, then downed his own tankard in several long draws. When he put it down, his throat was flushed and a bloom of colour had spread across his cheeks. 

“Is it warm enough in here for you?” he asked huskily, gesturing to the squat braziers at the perimeter of the bedchamber. “I can have my servants bring in another if you’re cold.”

“Too hot,” whispered Flora truthfully, trying to keep her words to a minimum. She was not used to the extravagance of _ in-tent heating, _and suddenly had a yearning for her damp bedroll and the breastplate barrier built by Alistair. 

Cailan’s face lit up like a child on his birthday. 

“I couldn’t agree more,” he said, glancing once more towards the entrance to ensure that it hung shut. “I think we both ought to… take off a few layers.” 

Flora looked nonplussed: she was only wearing a _ single _ layer, plus her smalls. She watched the king unfasten the crimson wool of his tunic, each button gleaming with reflected firelight. He wore linen beneath, so white and clean that Flora felt faintly ashamed of her own grubby, frostcough-splattered shirt. 

“Now: your turn,” the king said, eyes glittering as he advanced. 

** _Just launch him across the room with your shield, _ **her general-spirit told her crossly. 

Cailan reached his arm around her neck from behind, standing so close that she could feel the excited heat of his body. His fingers unfastened her top button, brushing against the hollow of her throat. 

_ I’ll get put in that… what’s that thing, where they lock your head up and people throw rotten things at you? _

** _The pillory._ **

_ Ooohhh! Oh no! _

** _Anyway: reprieve is at hand._ **

Cailan had made good progress on Flora’s shirt buttons when a thundercloud seemed to burst through the entrance flap. A chill breeze disturbed the sultry flicker of the braziers, and the air suddenly grew heavier with the force of intense disapproval. The general, clad in plain grey garb that matched the ascetic dourness of his face, stood scowling in the doorway. The king hastily removed his fingers from the astonished Flora, shuffling back a few paces to put some space between them.

“What do you want?” he asked, sulkily. “Have I missed a meeting or something?”

Loghain Mac Tir ignored his son-in-law, his eyes landing on the rigid, unhappy girl perched on the edge of the chair. 

“Do you want to bed him?” he asked bluntly, jerking his chin towards the furiously mouthing king. 

“No,” mumbled Flora, her eyes dropping to her boots. “I want to make his bed into firewood.”

“Come on, then.”

She did not need asking twice, scuttling across the room to the entrance. Cailan huffed and sulked, his mouth twisting petulantly. He poured himself another tankard of wine, downing it with a quivering hand to avoid speaking. Flora ducked beneath the general’s outstretched arm as he held the canvas entrance flap open. Loghain fixed the king with another withering stare, his mouth a tight line of disapproval.

“If you want to keep your Warden-Commander on your good side,” he said, voice snapping. “You won’t try and seduce his new recruits.” 

“I was just asking her for a drink,” Cailan said, puffing up with indignation at such a slanderous observation. “Nothing wrong with that!” 

Loghain’s response was a contemptuous snort, his eyes darting to Flora’s part-buttoned shirt. 

“Hm. Have you replied to the queen’s latest letter yet?”

“She writes to you more often than she writes to me,” retorted Cailan sulkily, rolling the rim of the tankard around the table. “Bah!”

Loghain’s nostrils flared, and he refrained from responding. Flora retreated as the general let the entrance flap drop without warning, a scowl creasing itself across her forehead. He appeared lost in thought for a moment, staring off into the shadows. The armour, hanging from racks on each side of the tented chamber, observed the pair like silent sentries. 

A slightly shaken Flora occupied herself with fastening the buttons of her shirt. It was not the first close call she had had with an unwanted admirer, but it had been the first time that she had hesitated to use her shield. At last, the general seemed to rouse himself from his brooding; glancing down at her. 

“Come on,” he snapped, irritably. “I’ll take you back to the Warden tents. An army camp is no place for a young lass.”

Loghain Mac Tir strode off down the canvas corridor as Flora followed, trying to work out where the general was from based on vestiges of the north left in his accent. He paused at the tent doorway, waiting for her to catch up; snarling something at the cringing soldiers guarding the entrance. 

The sun had set fully: Ostagar was swamped in shadow, torches igniting one by one in a defence against the darkness. 

The general said nothing as he led her back through the noble encampment, avoiding the campfires and raucous laughter. Flora eyed the back of his head, noting the slender braids that hung at each ear. This was a custom of men of the north; although not of the coast that she called home. 

“You’re from Oswin,” she said suddenly as they descended the narrow stair that led down to the main courtyard. “I recognise the sound of your voice now.”

Oswin was a small farming community that lay a half-dozen miles inland from the northern coast, on the edge of the River Dane. Herring often traded with the villages dotted along the riverbank; exchanging fish, bait hooks and netting for harvested grain.

The general glanced sideways at her. 

“Aye,” he confirmed, with a short nod. “Though it’s been decades since I lived there. I’m surprised you could tell.”

“My dad comes from Oswin,” Flora said, a little wistfully. “But he said there was no work there, so he moved to the coast. There’s always work for fishermen.”

“A lot of the farms were destroyed by the Orlesians.” Loghain’s lip curled involuntarily. “Many left. Where are you from?”

“Herring,” Flora replied, gratified when he gave a grunt of recognition. “No one else knows it.”

“Storm Coast,” the general said, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he ushered her beneath an ivy-hung archway. “West of Highever.”

His tone was deliberately casual. Flora nodded, delighted.

“Yes!”

To her disappointment, he did not ask her anything further about Herring, or the north coast. They were not far from the Warden encampment now; the tattered silver griffin banner had just come into view, hanging from a rampart. The camp’s activity had begun to slow as the residents prepared for evening. Overhead, the stars were emerging one at a time, pricking bright holes in the murky blanket of night. 

Loghain paused as a weary merchant guided a handcart before them, and Flora plucked up the courage to speak once more. It was no small thing for her to speak to a king _ and _a general in one evening.

“Thank you,” she said gravely, as he turned to scrutinise her. “For coming into the tent and… and helping me.” 

The general looked down at her for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

“I have a daughter,” he said at last, an unreadable expression etching itself across lean, craggy features. 

Flora was about to ask his daughter’s name, when a soldier came clattering to a breathless halt in front of them, eyes wide. Loghain’s hand went reflexively to the hilt of his sword. 

“General,” the soldier panted, the words emerging shapeless and unsteady. “The river scout is back. He’s hurt _ bad.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha so I’ve definitely altered Cailan’s character slightly to suit my story, I’ve exaggerated his womanising and his buffoonery! Can’t you envision him tipping his fedora when he says My lady?! 
> 
> Anyway, deus ex Mac Tir! I wanted to make him a bit more shades of grey rather than outright cartoon villain.


	14. The Mending

An indifferent moon hung overhead, flooding the open spaces of the fortress with a sour, milky light. The hollows carved into the general’s cheeks suddenly had a cavernous depth. Panting and red-cheeked, the soldier stood on the cobbles; he had rushed up three flights of crumbling steps and across several courtyards to find them. Loghain Mac Tir stiffened, the corners of his mouth pulling taut. 

“Can you get back from here?” he asked Flora tersely, jerking his head towards the nearby banner marking the entrance to the Warden encampment. “I need to speak with that scout before he perishes.”

The man who had delivered the message grimaced: the scout had been on the verge of crossing the Veil when he had departed in search of the general. Flora, instead of heading for the Warden’s camp, turned an entreating face up to Loghain.

“Take me with you,” she pleaded, her voice small but earnest. “Please. I can help.”

“Aren’t you a shield mage?” the older man snapped back, already poised to stride away.

“I’m a mender,” Flora insisted, scuttling sideways, crablike, to keep herself before him. “Shielding is just a… a… a  _ hobby.  _ I’m a mender before anything else.”

For the briefest moment, Gehan’s mocking cognomen of  _ one trick pony  _ \- and accompanying  _ whinny-  _ rang in her head; she ignored it. Loghain swept an appraising eye over her, and she saw the scepticism palpable on his face.  _ Too young. Too inexperienced.  _

“You any good?” he asked tersely, yielding to the plea in the huge, rain-coloured eyes.

“Yes,” replied Flora, with northern bluntness. 

The general stared at her a moment more, then gave a slight, dubious nod before turning back towards the soldier and snapping an order. Weary to the point of exhaustion, the soldier drew from some last reserve of energy and turned back. 

Aided by a westerly wind, the misting rain began to break against the walls of the fortress, coating those within it in a fine spray. The moon shivered and cloaked itself in cloud, drawing the stars away from the earth so that the whole valley seemed shrouded in darkness. It was a melancholy night; a night that seemed to be suited for the death of a scout. Loghain cursed the rain as he turned up the collar of his cloak, keeping equal pace with the soldier despite the decades-difference in their years. 

_ The general has been away from the north for too long,  _ thought Flora censoriously as she scuttled in their wake.  _ We don’t complain about the rain. We get used to being wet. _

Shadow seemed to slide down from the mountains above, flowing into the fortress like glacial streams. She followed them around an exposed crag of rock, almost slipping on a mulch of wet leaves and mud. Wondering where the leaves came from - there were no trees in Ostagar - she realised that they must have come from the forested valley below, carried up on the gusty swells of wind. 

As they passed along a high rampart lined with broken statues, the general quizzed the soldier about the condition of the scout. 

“What happened to the man?” His words were snatched by the wind and flung to the courtyard below; Flora could barely hear him. 

“Darkspawn ambush near the old watchtower,” the soldier replied, an involuntary grimace twisting his weary features. “Don’t know what happened exactly, my lord, but he’s in a bad way.”

_ “General,”  _ corrected Loghain with a flicker of irritation; he had forsaken his teyrn’s title for his military one. “How did he escape?”

The soldier made a helpless sound of ignorance, receiving a dark glower in response. 

The entrance to Ostagar was flanked by two crumbling circular towers, one little more than a ruin. A square courtyard beyond housed the stables and kennels; surrounded on three sides by moss-covered walls. Usually the space was inhabited only by grooms and Mabari-keepers, who crossed the cobbles to attend to the needs of their charges; filling buckets, unloading cartloads of hay and mucking out soiled stalls. 

Yet tonight the courtyard was crowded; a motley assortment of several dozen gathered near the old well. Stableboys jostled for space next to soldiers, scribes waylaid from duties pressed against the metal-clad Templars. They formed a ragged semi-circle around something on the ground; their faces rictus with horrified fascination. 

“Move,” snarled Loghain, elbowing a gawping camp servant aside. “Fucking _move!”_

Flora shrunk away from the suspicious eyes of the Templars as the crowd shuffled apart before them. She knew that they were focused on her, hackles rising and fingers creeping towards the hilts of their blades. 

_ That’s the new Grey Warden mage. The one that the Warden-Commander won’t let us guard.  _

_ Look how young she is. How untrained. Is she even Harrowed? Dangerous.  _

Then Flora felt the fine hairs on the back of her arms rise. An electric shiver shot from the nape of her neck down to the base of her spine. The Templars were washed from her mind like a wave smoothing away the ridges in the sand; replaced with a focus as sharp and narrow as a golden needle. She felt the presence of her other spirit - the ancient one that never spoke, but smiled or sighed into her skull - like brilliant magefire within her belly. Her magic was already rising in her throat, gilded particles tingled against the wetness of her tongue. The beds of her nails gleamed as though they had been dipped in molten metal. 

_ I’m so out of practice. _

Her spirit smiled, gentle and reassuring.

_ I’ve not mended anything worse than a stab wound in years.  _

** _[...]_ **

The crowd parted a little more quickly when they saw Flora, aware that she was a mage. Flora barely noticed: she felt as though she was being drawn towards her patient like a small boat pulled through the shallows. She could hear a faint half-gasping moan coming from somewhere beyond the row of frightened faces, the pant of something animal rather than something human. It was like a siren song. The general came to an abrupt halt before her, muttering a sound of resignation; Flora evaded him like the tide flowing around a rock. 

“Poor sod,” she distinctly heard him say. “Done for.”

The creature lying on the cobbles seemed more corpse than man; a crumpled heap of leather and flesh. Their head was tilted back at a grotesque angle, fingers curled rictus-tight to their palms. There seemed to be nothing left of the chest except a mangled butcher’s cast-off of offal and meat. 

_ It’s like when the sailors used to get ground up on the Hag’s Teeth,  _ Flora thought absentmindedly, drifting forwards.  _ When their ships got stuck on the rocks and they’d get flung into the water and caught between the hull and the reef.  _

** _No, _ ** lectured her general-spirit, who - despite being responsible for shielding rather than healing - also spoke for her other, silent spirit. Her  _ other _ spirit had been dead long enough that they had forgotten how to eloquently communicate with mortal creatures. 

** _It’s not just a mending this time._ **

_ It’s not?  _

** _No. Don’t be complacent._ **

By this time she had reached the scout, faint and guttural gasps were the only sign that he was still alive. His mangled chest barely moved, his eyes were focused on nothing. He was young, perhaps a few years out of boyhood; although the wound had stolen any youth from his contorted features. 

** _You’ve wasted enough time. _ **

_ Ooh! Telling me off already and I ain’t even started. _

** _You should have run down here. Get on with it._ **

As though trying to soften the harshness of their fellow spirit’s words, ancient Compassion breathed in Flora’s ear and nudged her gently forwards; sending another surge of gilded energy up into her throat. Ignoring the gasps and murmurs of disapproval from the crowd, she lowered herself to sit astride the man’s thighs; leaning forward to peer at the mess that had been his chest. 

** _Appraise the wound, _ ** whispered her general-spirit. 

_ Lots of his ribble-sticks are broke,  _ Flora thought, casting her healer’s eye over the mangled mass and seeing white shards of bone.  _ And one of his airbags is flat.  _

** _We’ve taught you the proper anatomical terms! Foolish girl. _ **

_ Sorry: his ribs. Lung-bags.  _

** _!!_ **

_ Lungs. _

Flora’s world had already shrunk to the patch of cobblestones that held herself and her patient. The misting drizzle, the cruel westerly wind; the well of shadows and the whispering crowd; the bleakness of the stone hemming them in like prisoners ; all had faded to background noise, the constant murmur of waves against the shore. She saw nothing except the man before her, who had himself become nothing more than a wound.

_ His heart is barely beating,  _ she thought, her gaze slipping beneath the torn muscle.  _ It’s uneven. And - oh.  _

** _See. Not just a mending. _ **

_ Is that…? _

There was a black mass within the wound, congealed and rotten; stretching out putrid tendrils to ingratiate itself more deeply into the flesh. It pulsed like a living thing, except nothing living could look so grotesquely decayed. 

_ Is that the… the taint?  _ Flora thought hesitantly, the vocabulary still unfamiliar to her. 

** _Yes. See how it seeps into the flesh? It’s in his blood, carried all around his body. _ **

_ Eurgh. EURGH. Can I even cure that?  _

** _Stop being so unprofessional. And you must try. Do you remember your ordering? _ **

_ Yes. Heart first. Then lungs. Then bone.  _

** _Good girl. _ **

Flora rolled up her grubby linen sleeve to her elbow, watching her magic slither down her fingernails in glistening beads. It followed the contour of her wrist, purifying her flesh after a day of exposure to dirt and grime. Then without hesitation, she reached her hand into the man’s mangled chest cavity - not hearing the exclamation of revulsion and shock from the onlookers - and used her mender’s sight to guide her groping fingers. Grasping the failing heart, she felt the tingling shock of her rejuvenative magic passing into the limp muscle. Gratified to feel a more substantial throb against her palm, Flora withdrew her bloody hand and turned her attention to the deflated lung. 

_ I wish I was gutting a fish back in Herring,  _ she thought, wistfully.  _ I still haven’t had a chance to run away.  _

There was an explosion of outrage from inside her head. 

** _FOCUS, SILLY CHILD! _ **

Chastened, Flora bent double and dropped her face to the man’s gaping wound. She was close enough that she could smell the raw meatiness of the torn flesh, mingled with the sour-sweet odour of the taint. Exhaling a long breath of glinting, magic-laced air into the chest cavity, she began to work her fingers in small, deft motions that had been learnt in no classroom. Flesh was easy for her to mend; within a few minutes, the repaired lung blew full and fat. The man’s breathing became a little less laboured, the blue slowly fading from the fringe of his lips. Flora leaned back, absentmindedly wiping the back of her hand across her mouth to remove some of the blood.

_ Hmm, time for the ribble-sticks. Ribs!  _

Flora peered into the man’s chest, assessing how much of his ribcage was still intact. She had learnt to count up to twelve, in order to know the number of rib-pairs that a human ought to possess. There were six intact pairs, two were cracked, and four broken into pieces. Carefully, not wanting to leave any debris behind, she began to pick out the jagged white shards. They came loose coated in cloying pink, stained black where the taint had begun to seep through the porous bone. 

_ Now I mend the ones that can be mended first, and then grow back the ones that can’t,  _ Flora thought; desiring the reassurance of her spirits. In Herring she had dealt with grievous wounds on a reasonably regular basis. The Waking Sea delighted in smashing sailors against the rocks after first claiming their ships, or impaling them on shards of broken hull, or crushing them beneath falling masts. Yet in the cushioned and cautionary world of the Circle, she had spent four years mending parchment-cuts and ankles sprained from falls on staircases. 

** _Yes, _ ** replied her general-spirit on behalf of the ancient one. 

Four gilded exhalations later and the cracked ribs had been sealed; knitted together so tightly that not even a hairline fracture remained. She then turned her attention to the stumps of the broken ribs, working her fingers in repeating patterns. White tendrils, thin as cobwebs, sprang out from the ruined bone. Then, as though time itself moved at furious pace within the man’s chest, the tendrils thickened; layers of new bone wrapping over and around themselves in response to the intricate dance of Flora’s fingers. 

_ Heart beating, lungs full, ribs mended.  _

** _Now for the taint._ **

The man was breathing more easily now, the rattle of death had faded. Yet the taint had taken root within his body; death still had its claim on him. It would be a slower, crueller death than the one that would have resulted from the Hurlock’s claw. Flora eyed the pulsating black mass nestled within the flesh, suddenly apprehensive. 

_ Should I take it out? _

** _A good start. _ **

She curled her fingertips around the dark, globular lump, and gave a tentative tug. To her surprise, it came away easily; wet and meaty like a blood clot. Flora let it drop from her fingers onto the cobbles, doubt mixing with hopeful anticipation. 

_ Is that it?  _

** _No. The taint is in his body. You must breathe it in, as you would any other poison. Close the wound first. _ **

Flora took a gulp of damp air, feeling beads of sweat break out on her forehead. After making sure that the muscle within had been knitted seamlessly together, she bent her face to the wound and exhaled. As the golden mist rolled like smoke across the bisected chest, skin - pink and new - grew in uneven patches over the exposed muscle. Like lichen spreading across north-facing bark, it stretched over glistening muscle, as quick as she was able to work her fingers. Closing wounds was the first thing that she had learnt to do; Flora let her mind drift to her final task. 

_ So I just - I just breathe it in?  _

** _Yes. _ **

_ Like when Salty Drewin got stung by the stonefish and I had to breathe it out?  _

** _...Somewhat._ **

The skin had healed, fresh and flushed. In a matter of days, it would fade and blend with the surrounding flesh; leaving no clue that a Darkspawn’s jagged claw had once cleaved through it. The scout was beginning to stir beneath Flora now. She could feel him stir under her thighs, the terrible gurgle replaced by a deep, needful breathing as his lungs expanded to fill newly repaired ribs. 

** _Quickly. The taint will spread quicker with the repairing of his body._ **

Even as her spirits warned her, the man let out a groan of renewed pain. His veins, standing out against pallid flesh, had begun to darken like a stream polluted by wastewater. His fingertips curled, digging themselves into his palms. The eyes opened briefly - glassy and appalled - then rolled back into the head. Flora threw herself onto him, determined that all her efforts should not be in vain. Her hands steadied his head as she pressed her mouth to his, gulping in a breath.

All that she could feel on her tongue was stale air. Confused, she tried again; only to receive more of the same. 

_ It’s not WORKING. _

** _You’re breathing without focus. Think about what you wish to extract. This is your battleground: see your enemy._ **

It was typical for her general-spirit to use such an analogy. Flora remembered the cloying, putrid liquid that her commander had made her swallow at her Joining; then the globular mass that she had plucked from inside the man’s chest. Letting her mind’s eye slip beneath the surface of his skin, she saw the pollution coursing along the vessels of his body; dark tendrils creeping around the places that she had so carefully mended. 

_ Inhale death.  _

Flora sealed her lips around his for a second time, and decided to breathe in more slowly, over a count of ten. She had only reached two when her mouth was filled with something foul and rotten, like the scrapings from the inside of a plague-tomb. She gagged, her stomach curdling, the bile surged in her throat and then - just in time - the tainted miasma dissolved into a mass of innocuous, gold-laced saliva. Swallowing the purified liquid, Flora sat - slightly stunned - for a moment. 

_ I… do I have to do that again?  _

** _As many times as is needed. _ **

_ OH NO! _

** _Your patient needs you, _ ** her general-spirit told her bluntly.  ** _Get on with it. _ **

Ever obedient, Flora put her mouth to the man’s lips and inhaled once again, filling her throat with the rancid aftermath of the taint. Just as her stomach gave a rumble of protest, her body sprang to action; neutralising the poisonous air in seconds. 

** _Again. _ **

She hoped that she might grow used to the taste but it seemed to get worse each time: coating her tongue and her teeth as though she had put her mouth to a rotting corpse.

** _Two more, little one._ **

With two inhalations to go, Flora was sure that she was going to be sick. She took a deep breath of night air, her eyes swimming with tears and saliva pooling beneath her tongue. Then she felt something nudging at her lips, hard and leather, and realised that it was the spout of a waterpouch. 

“Drink,” ordered a voice that seemed to come from a thousand miles away. 

Almost tearful with gratitude, Flora gulped down a few swallows of water. Her stomach settled and her mouth temporarily cleansed; she thrust the pouch away and returned to her task with new determination.

_ This is my battleground!  _

** _One more._ **

She took an especially long breath, forcing herself to fill her lungs. The taint flooded into her mouth like offal; and then - was it her imagination, or was her body responding more quickly?- it melted away to nothing, leaving behind a golden mist frothing on her tongue. 

** _Now purify the vessel._ **

Flora did not need prompting twice: this was her favourite part of mending, since she was a little girl. Leaning forward, feeling energy surge upwards from her throat, she fixed her lips against the man’s mouth and exhaled. There was a sudden, dazzling gleam of golden light - like sunrise glinting through a gap in the shutters - as her magic flowed into him. Then she sat back on his thighs and watched its glittering progress around his body: dancing along the hollow flutes of veins and arteries, burning away the corruption of the taint like holy water. The man’s skin gleamed, the blood vessels seemed as though they were painted on with golden paint; he opened his eyes and stared in wonder; and then the last of the taint was purged. The last aureate particles of her magic melted away in the damp air, drifting down into the cracks between the cobbles. 

With the fading of her magic, the world seemed very dark. For the first time Flora became aware of the crowd around her; rows of astonished, fearful, awed faces. She looked down quickly, made shy by so much attention. The drizzle had started once again, fine and misting. Her stomach gave a loud grumble of protest, unhappy at such repeated exposure to the taint. The noise drew the attention of the man beneath her, and he focused on the girl straddling his thighs for the first time. At first his eyes widened in appreciation of such beauty, despite its coating of rain, mud and blood. Then, noticing the remnants of Flora’s magic clinging to her fingertips and the corners of her mouth, his face twisted in fear and revulsion. With a strength fuelled by Flora’s own rejuvenative energy, he thrust a palm against her breast and gave her a shove.

“Mage! Get off me!” 

Caught by surprise, Flora fell off his thighs and sprawled onto the damp cobbles, her cheek grazing the stone. At the same time, her stomach finally revolted and she was unable to stop the bile from surging up her gullet. Retching, her eyes streaming and blind; she threw up the contents of her belly. When there was nothing more to expel she lay on her side for several moments, feeling sorry for herself. Someone - she thought that it might be the general - stepped over her to reach the scout. Flora was too tired to mumble a word of protest.

_ I think I’ve been sick on my shirt. _

** _Yes. You have._ **

Through her tiredness, she sensed that someone was crouching beside her. A hand clamped itself on her shoulder, the fingers curling inwards possessively.

“Come on,” said a low voice, faintly foreign and familiar. “Let’s get out of the rain.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewrote this entire chapter lol. So we see here Flora’s raw talent for healing, guided by her spirits- and her immaturity, displayed through her speech patterns and distractions. I love writing healing scenes haha. Ungrateful scout!


	15. Mending Duncan

Flora remembered little of the journey from the entrance courtyard to the Warden encampment. Her eyes were still clouded with golden mist; her mender’s sight meant that she kept seeing glimpses of bone and sinew beneath the flesh of those who drew aside at their approach. Such a massive outpouring of energy had sapped the strength from her limbs. The wind blew rain in her eyes and snatched the hair from the untidy braid; she could feel her vomit-stained shirt clinging unpleasantly to her skin, and taste the residue of the taint beneath her tongue. If it was not for the strong fingers clamped beneath her elbow, both supportive and guiding, she would have fallen to her knees. There was a muffled exchange of conversation, and then the chill and cloying dampness of the fortress was replaced with cedar-scented warmth. The sudden gleam of firelight seemed brighter for its contrast with the shadowed exterior. A rustle of drawn canvas blocked out the thud of boot against cobble and the mournful cry of the wind. 

After blinking hard and rubbing her eyes, Flora finally managed to clear her vision; the last of the golden mist fading away. She had been guided to a narrow bunk in one corner of a hexagonal tent; larger than the average, hung with striped blankets on the walls and a worn patterned rug on the floor. A low, oblong table sat in the centre of the tent, supporting a clutter of cups, glasses and heating apparatus. A wooden chest with a repetitive geometric pattern on its lid rested near an armour stand, on which hung the distinctive pewter and mail of the Warden-Commander’s armour. Several small wooden charms hung from a frame fixed to the far wall.

The Warden-Commander himself was standing before a cabinet cut in the same geometric pattern as the chest, pouring a generous serving of dark crimson liquid into a silver beaker. The bottle hailed from Antiva, a nation renowned for the potency of their wine; the pungent scent of alcohol tickled his nostrils.

_ Good,  _ Duncan thought, recalling how his young recruit had -  _ somehow - _ drawn the taint from the wounded scout simply by inhaling, flooding her mouth with the foul toxin.  _ The stronger the better.  _

He turned to the centre of the tent, beaker in hand. Flora was sitting on his bunk, absentmindedly pleating the blanket between her fingers. Despite being covered in mingled blood, rain and her own vomit, with hair bedraggled and stuck to her face, she was still the most extraordinary looking girl that the Rivaini had ever seen. 

“Oh,” she said in distress, realising that her bloody fingers had left brownish smears on the patterned blanket. “Ooh, I’m sorry.” 

She turned her anxious face up to his, the cloudy grey eyes huge with apology. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Duncan replied, crossing the tent in a half-dozen strides and offering her the beaker. “Drink this.”

Flora took the beaker, gulping it down hastily - yet not swift enough to avoid the alcohol breaking apart into wine, yeast and sugar in her throat. She made herself swallow it because Duncan expected it of her, although it was not a pleasant experience. 

“Finish it,” he instructed sternly; the ever-obedient Flora did as she was told. “Good girl.”

She went pink at the praise and he felt something dormant flicker to life within him; the blood throbbing a little more forcefully along the courses of his body. To distract himself, the Warden-Commander went to retrieve a spare linen shirt from the chest. He brought it over with a washbasin and cloth, placing the items on the bunk beside her. She looked at them, then gazed up at him; the firelight picking out bright threads of copper in the mass of mahogany. 

_ She’s all hair, mouth and eyes,  _ Duncan thought to himself, amused and wistful.  _ It’s a cruel irony to meet a girl like this, thirty years too late. _

“Thank you,” Flora breathed, her voice made hoarse by the excessive volume of magic that had passed through her throat. “I ‘preciate it  _ a lot. _ ”

With a nonchalance that reflected years of little privacy, she reached up and unfastened the button at her throat. As her fingers dropped to the second, Duncan - begrudgingly - made himself turn back to the cabinet. She was reflected in the small Orlesian glass he used to trim his beard; the shirt hung tantalisingly loose around her unblemished shoulders. With even greater reluctance, the Warden-Commander tore his gaze away. He turned his attention to the desk standing in a shadowed corner, pretending to read a letter that he had already read and responded to. 

“What’s this?”

Duncan turned, unsure whether he was relieved or disappointed that she had finished changing. The hem of his linen shirt fell halfway down Flora’s breeches, she had rinsed her face and hands, and her hair fell in a wine-red tumble to her waist. She was standing before the hanging charms, her fingertip prodding one tentatively.

“It’s from Rivain,” he explained, crossing the tent to stand beside her. “That’s a rattlesnake. The one to the left is a sand fox. The other is a chimera. They all live in the sand-sea between Dairsmuid and the coast.”

Flora gazed at the intricately carved figures a moment more, then brought her fingers to her mouth and began to bite at her nails. Duncan glanced reflexively at her hand, and felt a peculiar lurch of disbelief in his gut. That very morning he had noticed her bitten nails, clasped around a tankard as she yawned above it. Now, a half-inch of nail sprouted from each small finger; delicate and incongruous. 

“My nails grow when I heal,” Flora explained, noticing the incredulous expression on her commander’s face. “Dunno why. The more I heal, the more they grow. Look, they break easily.” 

She pressed a fingertip into her palm: the nail bent with little resistance, then snapped. Bringing her finger to her mouth, Flora nibbled at the ragged remnant of the nail until it was uniform and short.

“Sorry,” she mumbled through her fingers, casting him a mournful look. “I ain’t got no manners. My hair grows too, but only a few inches. It’s why I have to keep cutting it.” 

At last Duncan understood why the ends of her hair were so uneven: the result of taking a careless blade to her ponytail every few days. The Rivaini in him appreciated the peculiar nature of her magic as much as the man enjoyed her beauty. 

“Tell me about what you did,” he said, careful not to sound too urgent in case it unnerved her. “To the scout.”

“He shoved me,” Flora replied, suddenly indignant as she remembered. “He  _ shoved  _ me after I’d helped him! He didn’t even say thank you.”

Duncan realised that a more focused approach to his questioning was required: Flora’s mind, as befitted a daydreamer who spent half her time conversing with her spirits, flitted off on tangents like a rogue butterfly. Taking her gently but firmly by the elbow, he steered her over to the bunk and sat her down. Deliberately keeping a foot of space between them, he lowered himself beside her and then turned to fix her in his gaze; capturing her pale eyes with the magnetic pull of his coal-dark irises. 

“After you’d mended his wounds,” he said in a low voice, so that she had to lean forward slightly to hear him. “What did you do?”

Flora looked uncertain: she was not altogether sure  _ what  _ she had done. A tiny line indented itself between her eyebrows as she thought about it.

“I cured him,” she said wonderingly, after a moment. “I breathed the - the taint out of him, like it was a poison. Otherwise, it would have spread and… and killed him.” 

“You  _ breathed _ the taint out of him,” repeated the Warden-Commander, the slowness of his words in contrast to the wild, speculative racing of his mind. “You  _ cured  _ him of the taint’s poison. Are you certain?” 

Flora paused, listening to a voice that Duncan could not hear. 

“Yes,” she said, having received due confirmation from her spirits. “He’s not infected any more.”

To hide his astonishment, Duncan rose and crossed to the cabinet; pouring himself a beaker of the potent Antivan red. Downing it in three gulps, he filled the beaker a second time. A dozen different thoughts were tangled in his mind like the contents of a dressmaker’s silks chest. 

_ I ought to write to Weisshaupt about this girl. _

_ She breathed the corruption in and the man was cured. And she seems to have suffered no adverse effect as a consequence. _

_ Her magic must be a natural counter to the taint. _

The memories came thick and fast: some from a year ago, others from that very morning. 

_ He had forgotten his mother’s name several years prior. No matter, a commander did not need a mother. Then he had forgotten the name of his second-in-command. Only for an instant, but this was a man whom he had known for a decade.  _

_ Food had long since ceased to hold any pleasure for him, but more recently it had also failed to sufficiently fill him. He found himself eating greater quantities, yet never able to sate a hunger that gnawed at him like a wolf chewing his belly. _ _ _

_ With each year that passed, sleep grew more elusive. As a young man he had slept like the dead; now, he was lucky to steal four hours a night, and those hours were plagued with ghastly visions that left him drained and weary. _

The thought that perhaps he was now too tainted to successfully lead a defence against the Archdemon was one that haunted Duncan. It brought a sour curdling fear to his throat; he was not used to feeling  _ helpless  _ and yet there was nothing that could be done. For thirty years - longer than many - his body had valiantly fought the taint: now, at the most crucial moment, it seemed to be losing the fight.

_ One day I’ll wake, look in the mirror, and see a Hurlock staring back beneath the trappings of skin.  _

Duncan took another long gulp of wine, forcing his features back into some semblance of neutrality. When he turned back around Flora was sitting on his narrow bunk, inspecting the embroidery on the blanket. It was a Rivaini stitch in orange and tan; geometric diamonds contained decorative crosses. 

“Right,” he said and Flora looked up in some alarm: she was slightly intimidated by people who began their sentences with a hearty  _ Right!  _

“We ought to decide what’s to be done with this scout,” Duncan continued, still unsure whether to confess the corruption of his body. 

“The one who I mended?” Flora asked, confused. “Eh?”

“The ungrateful whoreson who had the nerve to push you away once you’d saved his life,” corrected the Warden-Commander, relishing the heat of the anger as it coursed along his veins.

_ I’m still a man. I still feel. _

“Oh,” she replied, with a practical shrug. “It ain’t unusual for people to react in such a way. They don’t like mages touching them.”

“Perhaps I should recruit him into the Wardens,” Duncan continued, somewhat maliciously. “Feed him a double dose of Darkspawn blood at his Joining. Or I could save some time and just kill him.”

Flora blinked open mouthed, half-amused and half-shocked. 

“You can’t kill him,” she intoned sternly, assuming incorrectly that Duncan was joking. “It’s against the RULES. And you can’t give him the taint again after I worked so hard to get it out.”

He laughed, a proper belly-laugh rather than the weary chuckle that he had adopted in recent years. The corners of Flora’s full mouth turned upwards unexpectedly. The smile broke the haughty veneer of her beauty; like a shaft of sunlight penetrating deep water. 

Duncan looked at her and thought,  _ the spirits put this girl in my path for a reason.  _ He found himself speaking impulsively, crossing the tent and crouching before her. The smile melted away and Flora peered at him, a faint crease furrowing between her eyebrows.

“Could you do the same for me?” he asked, simultaneously realising that extracting the taint from a man recently blighted was a wholly different thing to removing it from a man poisoned for thirty years. 

“Remove the taint?” Flora breathed, her pale eyes searching his face. “From you?”

“Not in the same way,” Duncan sought to clarify, unblinking. “But I can’t lead the Wardens as I am now. I can’t defend this nation. If you can remove even a part of it - weaken its hold over me…”

His words hung in the damp air as the rain pattered gently against the canvas overhead. It was fully nighttime now, the shadows within the tent were elongated and the voices of men muffled outside. Two dwarves were having a hissed argument over an item lost, accompanied by the uneven clunking rumble of a cart wheeled over the cobbles. Neither Duncan nor Flora paid any attention to these noises. He was watching her closely; she had lost the focus in her eyes, listening to whispers from the far side of the Veil. 

At last she blinked twice, and then fixed her thoughtful gaze on him.

“Alright,” Flora said, awed at the faith that he had placed in her. “I’ll try my best.” 

Duncan did not realise that he had been holding his breath until he exhaled, the air shuddering as it escaped his lungs. Flora ran the tip of her tongue over her dry lips, tasting the effervescent sweetness of her magic as it rose with premature eagerness from her throat. 

“I won’t know when to stop,” Flora said, anxiously. “I don’t know how quick it’ll happen, if… if it happens at all. I don’t want to do it wrong.”

As she spoke, he caught glimpses of light flickering within her mouth. Duncan did not want her to panic but was not sure how to reassure her: she was young, and wholly inexperienced. At last he resorted to putting a hand on her elbow, which he felt was not  _ too _ inappropriate. 

“Then we’ll only try it for a short time,” he said, quietly. “And if it works, we can do it again on some other night - or day,” he added hastily. 

Flora nodded slowly, her eyes not leaving his face. Her expression took on a distance; listening to words from a far shore once again.

“Alright,” she breathed, curling her fingers into her palms. “My spirits say fifty heartbeats. Will you count it? I can’t count that high.” 

Duncan made a sound of assent, aware that the prolonged crouching had sprung an ache in his knees. 

_ Perhaps your ailments are the result of age instead of the taint,  _ he thought to himself, wryly.  _ I doubt she can reverse the years themselves.  _

Then he had no more time to ruminate on the process of ageing because she had taken his face in her hands; face alight with a healer’s concentration. There was no hesitancy in the press of her lips against his mouth: this was how Flora mended, how she had  _ always  _ mended; it was not a kiss; it was  _ healing _ . Duncan felt her breathe deeply, then flinch a little at the inhalation. 

He was so focused on keeping motionless - a difficult task, since his arms seemed determined to take her in their grasp - that he forgot to start counting. At last he remembered, but then found that the gallop of his own heart was far too rapid to use for counting. Flora, on the other hand, seemed almost serene; her eyes closed and her hands framing his face. She knew what to expect now: the inhalation of something sweet, rotten and cloying, then the exhalation of sanctifying breath. Trusting in the strange workings of her body to transform the taint into harmless ether; she was relying on Duncan to keep count. 

In the end, neither of them brought an end to the purification: it was ended for them. 

“Maker’s Breath!” Alistair’s voice was somewhere between a squawk and a croak of disbelief. “Is it  _ true,  _ then!?”

The young officer stood in the tent doorway holding a lantern. The breeze swung the suspended metal cage back and forth, sending light tilting around the tent. There was a conflict of emotion on his face: disbelief, tinged with something else. 

Flora drew back from Duncan, swallowing the last remnants of the taint. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she wondered why the Warden-Commander had not been counting. 

“Is what true?” she asked, confused. A few golden particles still clung to her lips, although Alistair - caught up in indignation - did not immediately notice them.

“That… that you’re his bedwarmer,” Alistair continued, stumbling slightly over the words. “The rumours.” 

“I am not,” an astonished Flora replied, still envisioning someone who warmed up stones to heat blankets. “I was  _ mending.”  _

Alistair, somehow, managed to look even more horrified. 

_ “Mending?!  _ Using your weird  _ magic  _ on him?”

“WEIRD?”

Usually by this point Duncan would have stepped in to stop the bickering between his two youngest recruits. On this occasion he did not; because he was sitting on the bunk half-paralysed with shock at the cacophony of sensations assailing him. He could smell the last lingering trace of the stew that the men had eaten for dinner on the breeze; picking notes of tarragon and parsley from the acrid wash of woodsmoke. He could see the pattern on the blanket; the blurred mass of tan and black had clarified into a sharp-pronged geometric design. He could feel the damp linen plastered to Flora’s forearm-  _ when had he put his hand on her?  _ \- and the warmth of the skin beneath. The mildewed interior of a damp-stained tent suddenly seemed more vibrant than any enamelled Orlesian foyer; the guttering tallow candlelight brighter than a Divine’s pyre.

_ My mother’s name was Tayana, _ he remembered suddenly; the memory rising unprompted to the surface of his mind.  _ And she wore glass beads in her hair. _

Suddenly he became aware of the squabbling that surrounded him. Flora was pink-cheeked with affront, Alistair narrow-eyed with suspicion. 

“You’re barely trained,” the junior warden protested, the green flecks in his irises standing out like shards of glass. “You said it yourself: you don’t  _ really  _ know what you’re doing. What if you’d hurt our commander?”

“My magic don’t hurt people,” Flora said, indignant. “I was trying to help. WHY ARE YOU BEING MEAN.”

“Enough,” said Duncan, thrusting off his astonishment and gathering his senses. “Alistair, you ought to know better than to pay heed to rumours. I  _ asked _ for her assistance and she gave it. Flora- ”

He broke off suddenly as she looked up at him, the words immobile in his throat. It was almost as if he were seeing her for the first time: the dark line circling the soft grey irises, like someone had traced them, the faint tea-coloured freckles dotted across her nose, the coppery highlights buried in the mass of dark red hair. 

“Flora.” He composed himself. “Thank you. I’ll let you know if - if further mending is required. Now you both ought to retire for the night; it’s been a long day and who knows what the morrow might bring?”

Alistair escorted Flora back to their tent begrudgingly; neither speaking nor looking at her. Flora, suddenly weary from the day’s events - the king, the scout, the commander - trudged dolefully behind him. She felt as though she should be proud of herself; that she had  _ accomplished  _ something today; but all she felt was a homesickness that seemed to stab at her belly like a knife. She had scant knowledge of Fereldan geography, but knew that Herring was many,  _ many  _ miles away from where they were. 

That night, she noticed that Alistair had added another piece of armour to the barrier between their bedrolls; building up the wall that divided them. In the Warden-Commander’s tent, Duncan crumpled the letter he had penned to Weisshaupt in the palm of his hand.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is entirely new from the original - I wanted to introduce the concept of Flora being able to purify the taint, which I didn’t bother doing at first, and who better to demonstrate her ability on than Duncan? I loved the idea of him doubting his capability to lead - thirty years of the taint doing a number on you has to have some consequence, right?? - and I wanted to build his connection with Flora so that, when he dies, she feels greater obligation to take up his cause (rather than just fucking off back to Herring haha.) I also loved poor Alistair bursting in and getting totally the wrong end of the stick! 
> 
> Interesting question though - Flora started off her night being inappropriately propositioned by Cailan. Duncan was having some trouble restraining himself during the mending - if he had given in to temptation and kissed her, would that make him any better than the king? Hahahaha! I love morally grey characters!


	16. The Shadow Of An Archdemon

The next fortnight passed in much the same way as the previous had done. Soldiers drilled on the valley floor, scouts combed the backwoods and borders of the Wilds for any clue that the enemy might finally be making their move. The king, growing bored and making no attempt to hide it, spend several more days hunting on the south side of the valley. To prove to his father-in-law that he was still the commander in chief, Cailan instructed one of his closest companions on a scouting expedition into the Wilds. Fergus Cousland, accompanied by two dwarven Wardens and two dozen retainers, ventured out the next morning. 

The only change was in the weather. Harvestmere drew to a dull and melancholy close; the temperature dropped further and brought a dawn frost that lasted half of the day. Men awoke to see their breath crystallise in the air before them. Discontented mutterings were exchanged in the morning queue for broth: that the annual harvest would have gone ungathered, that they hadn’t seen their families for months, that their farms and homesteads were sure to have been pillaged in their absence. 

_ Perhaps the king was wrong,  _ said one shivering archer to another, tugging the strings of their leather jerkin tighter.  _ Perhaps the Wardens are wrong too, and there isn’t a Blight. _

_ My cousin is one of the royal squires,  _ said the second, shuffling forwards towards the steaming cauldron.  _ He says that he overheard General Mac Tir arguing with the king. The general doesn’t think that there’s a Blight either, he says that the Darkspawn have always come to the surface. He says that the dwarves have been burrowing deeper again and that drives the Darkspawn out. _

_ Well,  _ replied the first, holding out his bowl.  _ I’ll cover your palm in silver if you say that to the Warden-Commander.  _

His companion let out a bark of incredulous laughter, shooting him a look of derision. Nobody would dare to cross the Rivaini, who had a Fereldan name but was wholly foreign in appearance and temper. Duncan strode the ramparts with the fanatical conviction of a man convinced that he was right; tired, bright eyes scouring the horizon for any sign of movement. He was utterly unafraid of Loghain - their arguments shook Ostagar to its crumbling foundations - and he showed no deference to the king. Often he treated Cailan like a particularly wearisome child; one who had to be tolerated but not necessarily heeded.

Those who were closest to the Warden-Commander - his scribe and his second-in-command - could see another change in the man as Harvestmere waned. Usually, the Rivaini cursed the arrival of a Fereldan winter, which often brought sleet and rainshowers so glacial that they could have come straight from the Anderfels. In the past Duncan had wistfully described Orlesian winters so mild that Peacebloom could be harvested year round. In Rivain, the seasons scarce had any meaning - the climate was as hot and humid in Firstfall as it was in Solace. 

Yet this year, Duncan made no complaint when the first light sprinkling of snow decorated the battlements like spun sugar. 

Previously there had been rumours in the camp that the Warden-Commander was a man ailing: his reactions were slower, his vision clouded at the edges, his sleep restless and his appetite failing. He seemed a giant struck by some mortal blow; stumbling forward with a defiant sword raised in trembling hand. 

As the first snow fell, Duncan was a man transformed. He was filled with a fervour the likes of which his senior officers had never seen: some inner blaze which kept him warm enough to train in combat for several hours before the sun had even risen. After reducing a training dummy to splinters, he would descend on the cook-tent and eat a ravenous portion to break his fast; only to return to the training field for another hour before his obligations called him away. Those who sparred with him soon had cause to regret it; Duncan was filled with the vigour and force of a man two decades his junior. On one blustery day a half-dozen Darkspawn ambushed a cart delivering supplies to the fortress. The Warden-Commander - having spied the attack from the ramparts - had leapt onto a horse, galloped to their aid, and single-handedly slain four Hurlocks and two Genlocks. The rumour about any possible infirmity vapourised the moment that he had ridden back across the drawbridge dragging six Hurlock corpses on a rope in his wake. Afterwards Duncan had berated himself for his recklessness, but another small voice whispered a persuasive counter:  _ and yet, you should test your strength. You know what awaits.  _

Only three people knew the reason behind the old Warden’s sudden rejuvenation. Every other night, once the campfires were quiet and the fortress still; Flora would accompany the Warden-Commander to his tent and put her mouth to his. She would coax more of the taint from the debased crevices of his body, returning raw creation energy with each exhalation. Despite the mending now being a regular occurrence, Duncan had not grown used to the manner it. They sat side by side on the bunk - the height disparity between them was too great for Flora to reach him standing - and she would turn towards him, framing his face with the brisk efficiency of a professional healer. He needed to consciously occupy his hands to stop them from settling on her body; either tapping his fingers in a meticulous rhythm against his knee, or clasping them around a conveniently placed tankard. Only once had he lapsed and dropped a palm onto her thigh, of which Flora politely made no mention. Duncan was not sure that she had even noticed. Then, after she had drawn back and touched the sensitive flesh of her mouth, he would tell her about the spirit-menders of Rivain; and how they visited their patients at night in the guise of vast, diamond-backed snakes. She listened in fascination, her eyes huge and distant.

On one particular occasion- a rare dry night, where the stars blazed overhead with no cloak of cloud and the air tasted cold and crisp on the tongue - Flora had just finished inhaling her dose of tainted miasma. Duncan had leapt up the moment that they were finished and gone to fetch the waterpouch. It had been two days since he had given into temptation and put his hand on her leg, and he was determined not to yield a second time. 

Flora duly rinsed her mouth out with tepid water, watching her commander move about the tent. He took a seat on a low stool and began to oil his blade, the motions practiced and methodical. Assuming that this was a dismissal, she reached for her fraying woollen jumper and pulled it over her head. When she emerged from the neck-hole, Duncan had her fixed in a quiet, thoughtful stare. His irises were so dark that they were almost indistinguishable from the pupils. 

“I wonder if your spirits conceived our meeting,” he said softly, speaking more to himself. “Without your magic, I would have no chance against the Archdemon.”

“What Archdemon?” asked Flora, alarmed and looking about her as though it might suddenly pop out from beneath the desk. “Arch? Demon? Eeeeh?”

The Warden-Commander was silent for a moment, contemplating how much to tell. At last he exhaled a long breath, put down the sword and came to sit heavily beside her. She turned to look at him, incongruously feeling the soft, fine hairs on the backs of her arms stand up on end. 

“The Archdemon is the commander of the Darkspawn,” he said, then grimaced.  _ “Commander  _ is the wrong word.  _ Controller  _ is more suited. Anyway, it directs the mindless Darkspawn to fulfil its purpose, which usually involves swarming the surface and murdering everything in sight. Killing the Archdemon will end the Blight and drive the Darkspawn back underground. I’m sorry: if there had been more time, I would have explained it to you sooner.”

“What kind of demon is it?” asked Flora, thinking on those she had met in the Fade. She was not overly familiar with them: her spirits guarded her like well-trained Mabari. 

_ Lust,  _ she thought, with a furrow of concentration.  _ Pride. Envy. Wrath. I never see them properly: my spirits don’t let them come close.  _

“It appears as a dragon,” said Duncan, thinking on texts from Ages past. “A winged dragon, with impenetrable scales and claws like scythes.” 

Flora’s brow furrowed. She had never seen a dragon before - not even a drawing or stained glass version of one. When Duncan mentioned that it had claws and scales, she envisioned the Archdemon as some sort of vast, flying lobster.

“And you have to kill it,” she said, pleating the embroidered blanket between her fingers. “Will it be hard to kill?”

“I believe so,” Duncan replied, his voice soft and weary. “I imagine there’ll be some sort of fire-breathing, at the very least. Not to mention the teeth.”

“I’ll come with you when you kill it,” Flora offered impulsively, still picturing her winged lobster. “My spirits can shield against  _ anything.” _

The Warden-Commander was surprised at the intensity of his alarm. 

_ “No,”  _ he said, harsher than he had intended. “You’ll be going nowhere near it, child.”

Some girls would have pouted at the sharpness in Duncan’s tone; Flora, reared on no-nonsense northern bluntness, barely noticed it. She gazed at him, her fine, dark red eyebrows drawing into an anxious upside-down  _ V.  _

“I can’t risk you on the front line,” he continued, quietly. “I want you to be safe.”

She continued to look at him, so still that she could have been sculpted from marble. Her eyes were the same clear, lustrous silver as the coins minted by the Orlesian crown. With great reluctance, Duncan rose to his feet; knowing that it would be folly to stay sitting beside her on the bunk.

_ I am still a man, after all. She’s made sure of that.  _

“You and Alistair ought to get some rest,” he said, suppressing the painful bite of regret. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Alistair was the only other person privy to the secret behind the Warden-Commander’s miraculous recovery. He brought Flora to Duncan’s tent every other night as instructed, and then shuffled his feet outside; reluctant to leave his commander alone in the presence of such a raw and undisciplined young mage. The junior officer could not help but feel oddly disconcerted when he thought of Duncan and Flora together. Alistair was (childishly, he knew) used to being the favourite; now, he suspected that he had been supplanted in some intangible manner. He had seen the way that their commander looked at Flora, and it was clearly not just in appreciation for her magic. Flora, for her part, seemed to be entirely oblivious; or perhaps she was so used to evoking such a reaction that it no longer registered. 

It was testament to the young man’s honourable character that he did not let this strange half-fascination, half-envy become an excuse for him to slack his responsibility towards her. As instructed by Duncan, he dutifully escorted Flora to the cook-tent to break her fast, practised her shielding with her and stood guard when she was bathing. He spoke up in her defence when the crueller of their brethren made comments about her. 

Flora, who wanted to be friends, was grateful for everything. The junior warden wished that she did not look the way that she did; but he supposed that she could not help the construction of her face, or the slender, sculpted curves of her body.  _ All the same, _ he thought grimly as he turned his back on the makeshift barrier dividing their bedrolls,  _ my dreams would be more settled if my sister-warden looked like a troll.  _

The day that everything changed started out as any other day. The sun rose in the east, somewhere far beyond the Brecilian Forest. The occupants of Ostagar roused with slow reluctance, their breath crystallising in front of their faces as they moved like old men towards their garb. A yawning queue formed in front of the cook-tent, although nobody was excited for the cauldron’s bland contents. 

Flora was standing at the midway point in the line, clutching two stacked bowls in one hand, a plate in the other, and with two tin spoons sticking out of her mouth. Every few minutes the queue inched forwards; each time, she worried that this would be the moment that the crockery would tumble free in a clattering cacophony against the flagstones. Alistair joined her a moment later with two tankards filled from the nearby wellspring. After a precarious exchange, they each ended up with a plate, a bow and a tankard; shuffling forwards another few feet. 

“Once,” said Alistair wistfully, craning his neck over the crowd to eye the squat-bellied cauldron. “I wish they’d serve  _ meat  _ stew, rather than pottage, day after day. I wouldn’t even care what meat it was: mutton, goat…”

“Bear,” offered Flora, who had been eavesdropping on a pair of hunters standing three places ahead.

“Bear,” repeated Alistair, shooting her a mildly quizzical look. “Can you eat bear?”

“Why couldn’t you?” asked Flora, equally perplexed. “I mean, if it were  _ dead,  _ it ain’t going to say ‘ _ don’t eat me!’,  _ is it? What’s the difference between a sheep and a bear?”

“I know which one I’d rather face on a dark night!”

“I meant in terms of  _ eating,”  _ clarified Flora, sternly. “Anyway,  _ I  _ wish they served fish stew. Except there’s no rivers round here.”

_ “Fish  _ stew? Sounds a bit - a bit  _ Orlesian.” _

Flora was horrified. “It do not.” 

_ “‘It do not’,”  _ he repeated, though there was no malice in the tease. “Is that how they speak up north?  _ It do not make sense.” _

She opened her mouth to offer an indignant response, but was cut off abruptly when a ripple of shock made its way along the queue: as though some great bird had run the tip of its feathered wing over the uncovered heads of the men standing there. They flinched and looked about them with startled, disbelieving eyes. One soldier let out a wild laugh, but there was no humour in it. In the wake of the bird’s wing, chatter sprang up in clusters; a soupy babble where all dialects had the same identical note of shock.

Flora and Alistair heard the news at the same moment, discharged from the gaping mouth of a groom. 

“The attack is coming,” the man bleated, the whites of his eyes showing around the irises. “Did you hear?  _ It’s happening, tonight.” _

Flora looked at Alistair; Alistair stared astonished at the man. Although the loyal junior officer had never doubted Duncan’s fervent belief that there  _ was  _ a Blight, that the Darkspawn were obeying some higher commander; as the days at Ostagar became weeks, and then stretched out into months, he had found himself wondering whether…  _ perhaps…  _

But now the masses of the enemy had coalesced: creeping up through the swamps and sliding from the foul-smelling bowels of the earth, coming together to execute the will of their unholy general. An army had been sighted on the borders of the Wilds; no mortal army this, with divisions and columns and calvary, but a seething horde which crawled senseless over each other and wielded weapons torn from the bodies of the dead. There were Hurlocks - the rotting, ravaged mockeries of man - sly, poisonous Genlocks, the mad, long-clawed Shrieks that sprung with a wail from the shadows. There were rumours of ogres. Three out of the six scouts had been captured; their agonised howling had drifted past the others as they fled for their lives. 

Flora looked at Alistair, who had gone still and silent as the queue descended into panic around them. Men abandoned their bowls and fled; stumbling back to their tents to retrieve their weapons as though the horde was already at the gates. Alistair himself seemed on the verge of joining them, his fingers clasping compulsively as though expecting to find the hilt of his blade. He was gazing unseeing at the chaos, the hazel eyes bright and feverish. 

“Ooh, good,” she said, suddenly. “The line is gone.”

“How can you be thinking of your stomach at a time like this?” he retorted, thinking  _ she’s just a little girl, she doesn’t understand war.  _

“You can’t fight with no food in your belly,” she insisted, scuttling towards the abandoned cauldron. “Come on.”

Ostagar seemed to have sprung to life again; swarming with activity as it must have once done at the height of its power in Ages past. The king’s army began a rapid relocation to the forested side of the valley; packing up tents and filling in trenches. Siege weaponry was hauled into position on vast trolleys. The priestesses wandered the camp, censors swaying and incense drifting in their wake. Men crowded into the smithies to get their blades sharpened, or a dent knocked out of their breastplate. The mages, overseen by tight-lipped Templars, were shuttled to their designated position. The wind crashed about in agitation between the walls of the fortress; at least it was not raining. The air itself seemed to tremble like a shy bride; terrified at what the night might bring. 

In the midst of the chaos, Flora and Alistair received an unexpected summons from the king. A weary, livery-clad messenger found Flora sitting on a bench in the Warden encampment. She was fiddling with the overlong sleeves of her tunic and looked as though she was not quite sure what to do with herself. The messenger handed her a slip of parchment; being unable to read, she wandered off to find Alistair. Alistair, whetstone in hand, read - with some incredulity - that their presence was required in the command tent. 

“Are you sure?” he asked the messenger, squinting down at the curling scrap. “Us - before the  _ king?” _

The messenger shrugged an impatient shoulder, already swivelling towards his next destination. 

“I was told: fetch Warden Alistair, and the girl Freya.”

“‘The girl Freya,’” repeated Flora, fascinated. “Well, that ain’t me. You can go and see Lord King, byeee.”

Quick as a whip, Alistair reached out and grabbed her arm. “Not so fast. He  _ definitely  _ means you too.”

Flora, remembering how the king had propositioned her the last time that she had been in his tent, fell into a sulk. 

Weaving their way through the chaos, the two young Wardens reached the noble encampment a short time later. Unusually there were no guards standing watch at the foot of the narrow steps: they had clearly been reassigned to some other more important duty. There were a few of Ferelden’s young peers standing about their courtyard, looking lost now that the feasting and merriment was over. They gaped like boys who had play-acted war in their dreams, who had now woken up to soldiers smashing their door in. One was struggling to don his armour, cursing at a trembling squire. Another was mindlessly tossing sticks for his Mabari to fetch, sword and shield leaning against the nearby wall. 

Alistair thought privately that the hard-faced cook’s boy who had served them their stew looked more ready for a fight than these pampered princelings. With his jaw clenched, he checked to make sure that his sister-warden was still behind him - she was, looking unenthusiastic. He slowed his pace so that she could catch him up, then realised that she was now trudging at a snail’s pace. 

“Flor- _ a _ ,” he complained, furrowing his wide, tawny brow at her. “At this pace the Darkspawn will have arrived by the time that we get to the king’s tent.”

She mouthed something at him, her eyes tragic. 

“What?” Alistair retorted, not understanding. “Why aren’t you speaking normally?”

“The king don’t like it when I speak,” whispered Flora, flailing a hand towards the royal tent. “He says my voice hurts his ears.” 

“Oh.” Alistair was flummoxed. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with your voice. It’s a perfectly  _ fine  _ voice. He probably doesn’t like it because you say  _ Cailan  _ in the same way as Loghain Mac Tir.”

“Cailan! I thought his name was  _ Colin.”  _

_ “Ha!  _ Come  _ on.  _ And please give me some warning if you’re going to call him King Colin, I want to make sure I can see his face.”

They were escorted into a tented antechambers in the king’s residence; the one dominated by a vast slab of oak that served as a table. A map was pinned to its surface by four leaden weights. Counters representing the Royal Army, Cailan, mercenary companies and the Wardens rested atop the ink and parchment. Each nondescript figure represented a mass of living, breathing people; destined to be hurled into the fray at the nudge of some highbrow hand.

Three men stood conversing at the head of the table; Cailan, resplendent in gold, was flanked by a scowling Mac Tir and a still, watchful Duncan. A cluster of scribes and captains gathered nearby, not permitted to approach the table but expected to follow its instructions without question. 

“Your Majesty,” murmured the groom who had brought them in. “Wardens Alistair and Freya.”

Flora could see Duncan’s nostrils flaring with displeasure; his lips tightening at the king’s careless mislabelling. Cailan straightened from the table and surveyed the two new arrivals. His gaze raked Flora blatantly from head to toe, and then shifted to Alistair. For the briefest moment, something flickered in the pale blue stare - his mouth opened partially -and then he grinned. 

“Alistair! One of the best Grey Wardens in the Order. What’s it like spending every day with the succulent Freida? No, don’t tell me - Mac Tir is breathing down my neck. I just  _ know  _ it.”

Duncan and Loghain wore similar expressions, although the general’s scowl cut a more disdainful edge. The Warden-Commander made a small gesture with a gloved hand, and his two junior recruits obediently circled the table to stand at his side.

“Alistair, Flora,” he said softly, nodding towards the table. “You must be wondering why you’ve been brought here.” 

Alistair nodded, shifting his weight from one booted foot to another. Despite his deference to the mighty figures present, the young man stood taller than any other present; his shoulders broad and his back lined with layers of rippled muscle. It was impossible - as much as he tried - for him to take up a subservient stance. 

Flora, meanwhile, was trying to avoid Cailan’s interested stare. She looked down at the map, and could make neither head nor tail of the diagrams nor the calligraphic text. Lifting her eyes, she met the brooding glare of the general. Since glowering was the most common form of communication in Herring, this did not dismay her in the slightest: she gazed back at him without blinking. Loghain was staring at her as though his eyes were a sculptor’s chisel and she were a block of marble, carving out her features with pressure and precision. 

“The Darkspawn will come through the southern pass tonight,” said Loghain’s strategy-maker, gesturing towards a flat white counter on the map. “The Grey Wardens will form the first line of defence, drawing them further into the valley. Then, at a prearranged signal, General Mac Tir will send the army down the slopes to ambush them from the sides.” 

Alistair listened attentively, uncertain  _ why  _ he was being informed of the night’s battle plan but pleased to be included regardless. Cailan lit up with pleasure, like a little boy gifted soldiers on Satinalia morning. He began to push counters across the map, shunting bands of archers and cavalry and legions of footmen into the path of the Darkspawn with uncaring fingers. Military terms fell from his lips as a priestess would utter blessings; he talked about  _ articulation  _ and  _ batailles, shield-walls  _ and  _ fortifers.  _ Each time that he would carelessly use an Orlesian term, his father-in-law would grind his teeth.

Conversely, the Warden-Commander had stopped listening. His eyes moved over his two youngest recruits, who still clearly had no idea why they had been summoned. Alistair, unaware - or unwilling to acknowledge - that he had a physical presence that could dominate the chamber if used properly, was making a wilful effort to follow the king’s rambling monologue. Stood close to one another and bathed in firelight, the similarity between the two men was stark; though anyone with eyes would find Alistair the more finely made. He stood several inches taller than the king, and his skin was a warmer, healthier hue. The hair, despite the short and functional cut, was cast in deeper, burnished gold. 

_ Cailan inherited their father’s colouring,  _ thought Duncan, summoning the old Theirin’s face to his mind.  _ But Alistair has his height, and the span of his shoulder; broad as a ship’s beam.  _

His gaze travelled around the tent in a deliberate tactic of delay, moving over the pallid faces of attendants, captains and servants. In contrast to Cailan’s exuberance, they stood grim and silent. He wished that he could reassure them:  _ if everyone does what they ought tonight, we will succeed. I wish that I would be able to celebrate with you in the morning.  _

Finally, like a child saving a favourite treat until last, the old Warden let his eyes settle on the flame-lit features of the girl standing beside Alistair. She had an impassivity that served her well in the circumstances; Duncan knew that she would have no idea what Cailan was talking about, but there was no indication of ignorance in the imperious beauty of her face. 

_ A difference of thirty years is not such a great thing,  _ he mused, allowing himself such folly of thought on his last night as a mortal man.  _ That captain over there is a scrap of a creature, with limbs I could break in a heartbeat; he must have thirty years, and he is nothing at all.  _

_ Ah, you old fool. _

Cailan swept his hand across the inked, flattened valley with a triumphal grin. From his expression one might assume the battle was already won. 

_ Her face is the sort that occurs once-in-a-generation,  _ Duncan thought, idly picturing her hair spread beneath him.  _ Not even Mac Tir is immune, as indifferent as he acts. _

_ It’s the sort of face that men would follow. The sort that might unite a nation. That would inspire a host to fight with greater fervour.  _

The pale green tendril of a new idea sprouted in the Warden-Commander’s mind. He put a hand to his pocket and felt the rustle of parchment: a bundle of letters bound with string nestled within. 

_ Just in case. Insurance.  _

“And so,” Cailan continued, his heated gaze falling once again on Alistair. “This is where  _ you  _ come in, my friend. You are going to have a vital role in the upcoming battle.” 

Alistair looked faintly alarmed, his eyes darting from side to side. He almost said  _ ‘Me?!’  _ but managed to suppress it just in time. The king nodded, fingers working excitedly at his side; as though he was already clutching the reins, or a sword-hilt. 

“I need a good man to light the fire at the top of the Tower of Ishal. This will be the signal for Loghain to send the troops down the sides of the valley,  _ ambushing  _ the Darkspawn flanks and surrounding them in the field!” 

For a moment, Alistair looked as though he had been slapped, his mouth opening as though in shock. His eyes darted sideways to Duncan, hurt and incredulous. 

“You - you don’t want me in the battle?” he asked, voice raw with disbelief. “I… I thought I’d be fighting at your side.”

“It’s a very important role, Alistair,” Duncan said, with only a veneer of sternness. “The whole battle will rest on your action. I’d only give such a vital task to one whom I trust most of all.”

This only partly placated Alistair, who hunched his shoulders and looked down at his boots. Cailan nodded, impatient to get back to his final armour fitting. Once again, his gaze swivelled to Flora.

“Now, Freya -  _ Flora.”  _ He smiled, pleased with the self-correction. “Originally I wanted you at my side as I led the Wardens into battle against the Darkspawn - it would sound good in the songs, wouldn’t it? The king and the mage? - but Duncan here offered to take your place at my side.”

Flora looked at Duncan, to see that his eyes were already on her, dark, hot and unreadable. She met his stare with her own pale gaze; whatever she felt, hidden by the ambiguity of the finely hewn features. 

“So, I’ve decided that you’ll be accompanying Alistair, Flora,” the king continued, tapping his fingers restlessly against the table. “You can go with him to the roof of the Tower of Ishal, just… well. Just in case a stray Darkspawn manages to make its way up there.”

“Alistair wouldn’t have a problem with a Darkspawn,” said Flora, loyal to her brother-warden. “He could take on  _ three  _ without help.”

It was the first time she had spoken since entering the tent. Alistair shot her a quick, startled, grateful glance. Cailan continued as though he had not heard her. 

“So, it’s decided then,” he said, grinning as he spoke. “Duncan, I’ll meet you at the drawbridge in two candle-lengths. We’ll ride down to the field of battle together!”

Something prompted Flora to look very hard at the king, fixing him in her memory just as he was then: bright, golden and bursting with hope. As she stared at him, she caught sight of Loghain Mac Tir glowering over Cailan’s shoulder: a stormcloud encroaching on a summer day. Both Alistair and Flora were grateful when the king dismissed them; turning his attention to his own role in the upcoming battle. No man could slight Cailan’s bravery; with a boldness that veered into recklessness, he had declared his intent to ride out with the Grey Wardens into the heart of the battle. Loghain could have mentioned that such a decision was one that Maric himself might have made. Instead, the general remained silent. 

The two junior Wardens accompanied their commander back to their encampment; awed at how the stagnating fortress had sprung to life in the past twelve hours. There was a manic edge to the preparations: the Mabari in the stables were howling incessantly, a horse trailing broken cart-reins galloped past them. The small Chantry constructed in an annexed courtyard was overflowing with the suddenly pious. Ostagar was disgorging its contents onto the valley floor: men, beast and machine in a long queue along the clifftop road. The setting sun was a red closing eye on the horizon; darkness came creeping in its wake.

Flora was brought to Duncan’s tent for a final time; although he did not seek her attention straight away. Encased in leather and silverite, he paced the narrow space adjusting a buckle here, a fixing there. His swords were resting on the low table, his shield against the canvas. He ignored her for so long that she thought perhaps he had forgotten that she was there. She returned her attention to the embroidered blanket, tracing the Rivaini patterns with her fingertip. 

When Flora looked up again, he was watching her closely, his face still with thought. As she caught his eye, he half-smiled at her.

“I know that it’s your first battle. But you mustn’t be frightened. The Tower of Ishal is far from the fighting, it’ll be safe.”

Flora nodded, her eyes lifting to the silver griffon emblazoned across the commander’s breastplate. It seemed to shift in the glow from the brazier, raising a wing and extending a claw: the illusion of light over medal. The last time that she had seen Duncan dressed in armour had been at her Joining. Only a few pieces were yet to be donned: the gauntlets, the gorget, the helm. 

“My dad says that fishing the Waking Sea in winter is like going into battle every day,” she said, thinking wistfully on her home. 

The channel that divided Ferelden from the Free Marches was the most capricious in Thedas; capable of summoning storms that brought down entire cliffs in a night. The beaches of the Storm Coast were littered with wreckage; the shattered remains of ships that had fallen foul of the Waking Sea’s vengeful nature. It had even dared to claim Maric himself, the old king and Hero of Ferelden. 

“I’ve crossed the Waking Sea in summer,” the Rivaini replied, recalling a week spent hurled about in the hull of a boat, alternately praying and discharging the contents of his belly. “Once. I would not do it again. Your dad must be a brave man to sail its waters in winter.” 

Flora’s forehead creased: she had not thought of her father as  _ brave.  _ The men of Herring set out each morning, leathered faces grimacing into the salt-spray as they shoved their boats into the angry shallows. It was no use waiting for the storm-clouds to clear, because the storm-clouds never cleared above the Waking Sea in winter. Sometimes the boats came back whole and untouched; sometimes they came back missing a man; sometimes, they washed up broken on the shore. Flora’s father had been fortunate to avoid the worst of the sea’s wrath; an elder brother had not been so lucky. 

Flora blinked, woken from her reverie by Duncan sitting heavily on the bunk beside her. His face was clouded with thought; he seemed suddenly older than his five decades. She peered at him - wondering at his expression - then put an impulsive hand on the rippled silver of his vambrace.

“‘The sea will take what it takes’,” she said, repeating an old adage of her father’s. “‘We set out anyway’.” 

Duncan looked at her small, miraculous fingers, the nails bitten and the knuckles smudged with the dust that constantly blew about the old fortress. 

“Is that a Herring saying?” he asked, wondering why he was delaying the inevitable. “I haven’t spent enough time in the north. Do you have another?”

_ To the whale-boats, to the whale-boats.  _ The urgent chant rang through Flora’s mind: the frenzied rush to drag the boats down the sand, spears in hand, whenever a whale-spout blew above the surface of the water.  _ To the whale-boats.  _

Flora bit back a giggle, not entirely sure that this was an appropriate saying for the occasion. Duncan stared at her for a moment; she did not notice the maelstrom in the well of the dark iris.

“Come on then, little one,” he said roughly, brushing past what he might have said. “Give me the strength to fight a dragon.” 

Flora turned to him, taking his face between her hands as she had done on a half-dozen occasions; then pressing her mouth to his. This time, Duncan did not sit passive on the bunk beside her. Made bold by the knowledge that - if all went to plan - he would not see the dawn, he cupped the back of her neck with a palm, his thumb stroking the smooth, white flesh. She made no protest at the touch, and so he kept his hand there; her pulse humming beneath his fingers. He made no effort to count the fifty heartbeats, intent on branding the heat of her skin, the salt-soap scent of her hair, the softness of her mouth, into his memory. 

At last they drew apart; breathless. Flora shot him a startled, slightly awed look beneath her eyelashes, unsure if what started out as mending had ended that way. She touched her bitten nails to her lips unconsciously, then blinked at him. The Warden-Commander, reluctantly removing himself from further temptation, rose from the bunk. After pushing his hands into leather-lined gauntlets, he retrieved a slender bundle of rolled parchment from his writing desk.

“Flora,” he said, and she looked up, still wide-eyed from what had just transpired. “These letters are too important to take into battle, and I don’t wish to leave them here. Will you look after them for me?” 

Duncan knew that she had no way of reading the faded ink on the parchment; that the instructions the letters contained would make no sense to her. Sure enough, she reached out a hand for the scroll, barely glancing at the curling line of visible text before tucking it within her tunic. Duncan waited for her to enquire what they were, but Flora did not presume to ask; assuming that it was none of her business. He gazed at her for a long moment, savouring her in the firelight as he had done so often in the daylight; then raised his voice and called for Alistair.

Alistair, who had - as usual - been waiting outside the tent, entered immediately. He was tall enough that he needed to duck through the canvas-hung doorway, grimacing as the damp material clung to the back of his neck. He looked at the pink-cheeked Flora, a flicker of curiosity in the bruised hazel iris, then turned his attention to Duncan.

“I hope this fog lifts for you in the battle later,” he commented, in a tone not quite casual enough to hide the undercurrent of hurt. “It’ll sink right down to the bottom of the valley, and there’s not much of a moon.”

“Be that as it may, Alistair,” Duncan replied mildly, “we must fight regardless. Come, fix me in this. Your fingers are more dexterous.”

Alistair moved forwards, circling his commander with an appraising eye. With a practised hand, he made a half-dozen small adjustments; pulling taut a strap here, fixing a buckle there. When he had finished, he gave a small nod and stepped back to survey his work. 

“There. All ready for the battle,” he said, his lightness fooling no one. 

Duncan rested a heavy, silverite clad palm on his shoulder for a moment, then gestured towards the bunk.

“Sit for a moment.”

Alistair took a seat beside Flora on the bunk, moving aside the rumpled blanket. 

“Careful,” she whispered, peeking at him from beneath her eyelashes. “There ain’t no breastplate-barrier between us.” 

He shot her a dour glance in return, the braised light of the fire warming his skin and gilding his hair. Duncan looked at his two youngest recruits sitting side by side. The muscled bulk of Alistair, too long-limbed and broad-shouldered for such a narrow bunk, emphasised the small bones of the girl beside him; her outer fragility deceptive. Even in this confined area, the young man had managed to find a few inches of space to put between himself and her. 

_ There’s something of the monastery still about him,  _ Duncan thought to himself, rueful and fond.  _ Those ten years with the Templars have left their mark. He’ll need to overcome that. _

“Alistair,” he said softly, meeting his junior officer’s eye. “I’m proud of how far you’ve come this year past. Follow my lead and take some pride in yourself.”

Alistair gave a nervous half-laugh, glancing swiftly up at his commander.

“I’m not sure I like you talking like this with battle approaching,” he said, forcing joviality into his words. “It sounds like - like you’re not planning on coming back!”

Flora turned her pale eyes on Duncan, a faint line creasing itself across her brow. Duncan ignored Alistair’s comment, continuing steadily.

“I want you two to stay together,” he said, so quiet that they could hear the grunted conversation of men leading horses outside the tent. “No matter what happens. Alistair, your sister will shield you in battle and keep you safe. I want you to do the same for her when you’re  _ not  _ in battle. You know more of the world than she does. Flora- ”

The Warden-Commander hesitated for the briefest moment, feeling his throat inexplicably tighten. She looked at him with eyes the shade of clear water; opaque and ambiguous. 

“Flora, do you remember the words said to you on the ramparts?” he asked, recalling how her hair had streamed like a tourney pennant in the wind. 

Flora had revisited them in her memory time and time again, uncovering them like a child drawing out a favourite toy. 

_ Your magic is a gift from the Maker. You are a spirit healer. You are not limited, you are specialised.  _

_ You are unique.  _

“I remember,” she breathed, her face bright and earnest. 

He nodded, half-smiling.

“Good. Remember me speaking them for the rest of your life,  _ qalbi _ .”

_ That was indulgent,  _ he thought to himself, wryly.  _ Remember me speaking them.  _

_ Remember me.  _

Duncan knew that if he made any further show of their farewell, Alistair at least would begin to suspect that something was amiss. He cloaked himself in nonchalance, glanced towards the pile of letters on his desk. 

“And now, I have a few matters to see to before the battle,” he said, easily. “Good luck in the Tower of Ishal, though you’ll most likely only encounter rats and cowering grooms. Farewell, both of you.”

He made himself turn away as Alistair nudged Flora to rise; keeping his eyes fixed on the stack of papers; denying himself even a parting glance lest something slip unrestrained from his throat. Denied sight, his ears strained to hear the gentle pressure of boot against mat, the rustle of hair sliding over a shoulder, the almost-inaudible sigh of her exhalation; and then the heavy veil of canvas came down and parted them forever. 

Except not, because then she elbowed her way back in, thrust herself upwards and pressed her lips to his bearded cheek. Then she had gone again, leaving a few damp leaves and a sigh of air in her wake. 

“Why’d you do that?” Duncan heard a perturbed Alistair asking, but her answer was carried away on the wind. 

For the rest of the evening Flora kept catching glimpses of her commander, though this was impossible since he had already descended to the valley floor. And yet she saw the glint of a golden earring in a crowd of grim-faced marching soldiers, his grey cloak whisked around a column and vanished. At last the sightings melted away like the shadow of a man fading in the dusk; and it was time for them to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter!! It’s completely new, the old one was DIRE!!! Sigh, it’s so hard to kill off Duncan wahhh. I had to give him a snog from Flora before sending him to his death XD lol!
> 
> I’ve made Duncan have the assumption that he was going to die because he thinks he’s going to be sacrificing himself against the Archdemon! Also ooooooh what could that roll of parchment contain?!!!


	17. The Tower of Ishal

The moon had veiled itself and only a sallow starlight filtered down to the valley below. Most of Ostagar’s occupants had already departed, following the winding road that led down to the valley floor. The ruins seemed quiet without the bustle of men and Mabari; a pall of melancholy hung over the mossy, tumbledown walls. Somewhere, hidden within the dense-packed pines on the far side of the slopes, Mac Tir stood at the head of three thousand nervous men. 

Flora found it strange passing through the desolate Warden encampment; Duncan had long since led their brethren to the descent. Now only their detritus remained: a cloak hastily shrugged off and hung on a tent pole, a helm dented beyond repair abandoned on the dirt. Beside an abruptly-quenched, still smouldering campfire, a dozen bottles of ritewine were planted defiantly in the mud. 

She waited outside their tent as Alistair finished changing into his distinctive striped mail and griffin-carved breastplate; hearing him mutter a curse as he knocked something over. Without servants present to fuel the braziers, most of Ostagar was drowned in darkness. Flora put her mouth to the gap in the canvas:

“Could you bring my staff out please?” 

There was a reluctant pause. Finally:

“Where’s the blasted thing?” 

Alistair’s voice echoed within the recently vacated space. 

“Under my bedroll, I think.” 

A few moments later he emerged, ducking to avoid the roof of the tent; clutching Flora’s staff as though it were flaming at one end and dripping poison from the other. Flora took it with a grimace, putting her nose to the wood.

“Oh!” she breathed in dismay. “It smells like- like mould.” 

“It’s covered in mildew,” replied Alistair, relieved to have discharged responsibility of the magical object. “That’s what happens when you keep it under the bedroll and never take it out. Why don’t you use your staff, anyway?”

“I use it sometimes,” replied Flora vaguely, unceremoniously wiping her staff on the bottom of her tunic. The parchment scroll that Duncan had given her rustled against her breast and she thought again on his words to her:  _ keep it safe.  _

“Hm. Come on, I need to fetch my sword. Don’t suppose I’ll be using it, but you never know.”

They passed a gaggle of priestesses on their way to the smithy, clustered together like a flock of snow-white pigeons. Lanterns and censors were clutched in their gloved hands; they had just returned from ministering to the troops on the valley floor. Several of the younger priestesses smiled at Alistair, tall and handsome in his gleaming armour; offering him blessings and oil from their sacred vials. They ignored Flora.

“Here,” said Alistair once they had passed through the crowd, dabbing some pungent oil from his forehead onto Flora’s. “Now the Maker will protect you too.”

“My spirits protect me,” replied Flora, struggling to keep her staff on her shoulder. The leather carrying strap was too long; she kept tangling the wooden length between her knees. “Ow.”

** _Shorten the buckle, _ ** advised her general-spirit, irritably.  ** _What’s the point in getting bruised knees?_ **

The Tower of Ishal loomed to the east sprawling fortress, leaning at a slight angle like a drunken sentry. It was an awe-inspiring piece of architecture: two hundred feet of solid granite, flanked by vast support buttresses and ringed with glass-filled arches. It had weathered the Ages well; only one of the buttresses had crumbled away - causing the slight tilt - while a handful of shattered windows stared like blind eyes. A gentle stone ramp, rippled from centuries of footfall, rose to a set of iron-studded wooden doors at its base. 

The battlements that curved, chain-like, away from the Tower provided a view of the valley floor below. Alistair leaned against the weathered stone and peered down into the darkness, straining to see the flaring pinpricks of torchlight that would declare the battle begun. It was like gazing into a well: the moon had turned away, taking its wreath of stars with it. 

“As soon as we see the fires below, we enter the Tower,” he said for what seemed like the hundredth time, adjusting his pauldron.  _ “Flora!  _ You aren’t even looking. Are you  _ eating  _ again?”

Flora shrugged: leaning against the ramparts with a small piece of cheese in one hand and wax paper in the other.

“We didn’t have dinner,” she reminded him, defensive. “The king called us to his tent. I can’t climb to the top of  _ that  _ without a snack.”

She tilted an accusatory chin towards the lofty roof of the Tower.

Alistair looked about to protest, then relented with a half-smile and a shrug. 

“I was annoyed to miss dinner too,” he confessed, reaching out to slide the wax paper from between her fingers. “Wednesday is sausage night. I don’t know what’s  _ in  _ the sausages exactly - best not to ask - but they taste good.”

His fingers worked at the wax paper, folding it with a familiar ease. A Mabari emerged, with four stiff little legs and a stub of a tail. He handed it to Flora, who gazed down at it in awe.

“Better than the food they used to serve up in the monastery,” he said, the words running slightly quicker from nerves. “They’d only have meat once a week. I mean, you’d think they were feeding  _ nugs _ rather than a host of boys. Ah, but why am I thinking about sausages when… when…”

The sentence trailed like a strap dangling from an ill-fitting saddle. It did not need to be finished: the words hung unspoken in the air. 

_ When, a mile away, our brethren are about to meet their destiny; one way or another. With Duncan and King Cailan at their head.  _

Alistair shot Flora a reproachful look, blaming her for setting his mind on such a casual tangent. 

The moon emerged, clad in dark cloud like a widow. Hoarfrost had begun to creep across the dark stone; the threat of snow hung in the air. Still, no blaze of light swelled in the deepest part of the valley, although Flora could have sworn that she heard the faintest  _ scrape-scrape _ of metal. Believing it to be her imagination, she leaned back against the rampart and began to roll her discarded staff back and forth over the flagstones with the toe of her boot. 

Alistair, his eyes fixed on the valley floor, inhaled a sudden, sharp breath of chilly air. He had spotted an array of flickering light below; fire flung in volley towards the enemy. This signalled the opening of hostilities: the battle had begun. 

“Flora,” he said, then repeated it more sharply.  _ “Flora.  _ Come on, we have to go.” 

Flora scrabbled up her staff from the ground, slinging it awkwardly by its leather strap around her shoulder. Alistair had retrieved his sword and shield from where they were propped against the ramparts, resolution igniting across his handsome face. For all that he had protested about his exclusion from the main battle, he was determined to perform his assigned duty well. 

The young officer led the way towards the iron-studded doors at the base of the tower. Since Ostagar’s vast flanking walls had never been breached, only the slow dereliction of time had taken its toll on the wood. As Alistair leaned forward to shove his shoulder against the door - his hands occupied with sheathing his blade - it swung suddenly outwards. If not for his well-honed reflexes, the wooden panel would have hit him in the face. Flora, whom he had accidentally elbowed during his hasty retreat, let out a squeak. 

“Maker’s Breath!” Alistair complained, regaining his composure. “Watch where you’re going! You almost sent me- ”

His complaint withered in his throat, the hilt of his blade almost slid from his fingers. The sight before him seemed oddly unreal, as though he were in the Fade and this was some nightmarish vision conjured up by a sly demon. 

A man stood in Ishal’s entrance, stiff as a day-old corpse, his face contorted into something barely human. He wore the livery of a groom, but to whom he belonged was impossible to identify since the garments were saturated with crimson. He raised a trembling arm in small jerks towards them, as though hailing an approaching rider. It was then they saw that his belly had been opened and his guts were hanging loose, raw and steaming. A second later and he fell face-first onto the ramp, making a sound like a sack of fallen meat. Behind him was a Hurlock, clad in armour scraps and wielding a sword that was little more than a long, rusted iron claw. Scraps of flesh hung from the blade’s ragged teeth. Framed by the doorway, it stood frozen for a second - almost surprised to see the two Wardens there - and then it lunged. 

Alistair regained his senses swifter than Flora, yanking free his sword with a singing chord of metal. Thrusting the blade skywards, he blocked the downwards scythe of the Darkspawn’s rusted claw, grunting as the blades sounded a discordant clash. The Hurlock recoiled and a mouth filled with too many teeth opened in an animal snarl. It hurled itself forwards once again, using the high ground it held to propel the second lunge. This time, the claw-blade crashed against a gossamer thin, gleaming barrier; the ragged end sliding downwards as the creature stumbled.

Seizing the momentary advantage, Alistair thrust himself forward. With the hilt of his sword grasped in both hands, he shoved the point brutally into the Hurlock’s ribcage. It made a sickening scrape as metal met bone, shearing sideways into the rotten clumps of flesh that served as organs. The Hurlock’s snarl was abruptly truncated as it slumped onto the sloping stone; Alistair tugged his sword free with a curse. Blackened blood began to run in rivulets down the ramp, while the golden shield melted into the shadow. 

“Maker’s Breath,” the young man said after a moment, awestruck. “Maker. That was unexpected.”

Flora elbowed her way past him, stepping gingerly over the Hurlock’s corpse before dropping to her knees beside the man. She did not harbour much hope - half of his guts had been hanging outside his belly - and when she put a hand to his neck, there was no throb of life. Frightened, she turned her face up to Alistair, who looked in equal parts stunned and scared. Duncan’s junior officer was no coward, but he liked predictability, plans and preparedness. The Hurlock emerging from Ishal’s mouth had been a most unpleasant surprise.

“There aren’t meant to be any Darkspawn up here,” Alistair said distantly, his voice far quieter than usual. “They’re meant to be on the valley floor. How did it get  _ in _ ? The fortress is solid rock.”

“Dunno,” whispered Flora, her fingers compulsively stroking the leather strap securing her staff. “Something’s gone wrong.”

Alistair shot her a brief, anxious look, keeping his sword raised before him. He edged towards the tower entrance, where one door was jammed ajar. Only a mass of shadow was visible beyond the jutting. iron-studded wood. 

“Keep back,” he instructed Flora tersely, summoning his meagre seniority. “There could be more of them.” 

There was a bitter curdle of fear forming in Flora’s belly. As Alistair approached the door, his face stiff and hollowed with tension, she felt as though she was going to be sick. Although she had been scared at her Harrowing, during their expedition into the Wilds and at her Joining, that fear was a response to events which had been chosen for her. The emergence of the Darkspawn from the base of the tower was something that nobody had planned; like suddenly biting into a worm. 

** _When the boy said: ‘keep back’, _ ** hissed her general-spirit.  ** _You weren’t planning on actually obeying, were you? _ **

_ There are monsters in the tower!  _

** _Be that as it may, _ ** replied the spirit, irritably.  ** _He will need two hands to carve a sword through ‘monster’ flesh and bone. You must be his shield. _ **

_ But I’m scared!  _

** _Scared?_ **

_ Yes!  _

** _‘We set out anyway.’ _ **

This, although it was spoken in her father’s salt-hoarse voice, came from her other spirit; the ancient, dreaming one. The words rose like mist in her mind, floating to the top of her skull.

_ Quoting my own dad back at me,  _ Flora thought sulkily, following Alistair up the ramp.  _ If I end up gutted like a fish, it is NOT my fault.  _

** _If you end up gutted like a fish _ ** \- her general again -  ** _it is because you mishandled our considerable gifts. _ **

Alistair, his gloved palm splayed against the wood in preparation to shove it open, looked down at Flora in surprise. She could see the fear writ in the finely hewn lines of his face, and felt oddly comforted that she was not the only one who felt frightened.

“I said that you should stay back,” he hissed, almost dropping his sword. “You’ve only been a Warden for a month. You’re fresh out of a Circle. This is too dangerous for you!”

“It’s too dangerous for  _ anyone _ ,” intoned Flora gloomily, casting another look at the eviscerated corpse behind them. “Let’s just get on with it.” 

After a brief hesitation Alistair gave a taut nod, readying his blade before him while hoping that it would stop shaking at some point. Filling his lungs with cold, hoary air, he ventured across the threshold; immediately disappearing within a mass of shadow. Flora, unsuccessfully trying to channel the stoic resolve of her father, followed in his wake. 

The inside of Ishal was vast and hollow; the interior space stretching upwards hundreds of feet into a gloomy, vaulted ceiling. Stone figures, their features blurred from age, posed in alcoves lining the walls; the flagstones had survived mostly intact. It had the cold, desolate air of a charnel house. Flora’s first thought was that the tower felt strangely submerged; as though it had sprouted from some part of the sea bed. The wail of the wind was muffled but it was somehow even  _ colder  _ than outside; the moonlight filtered in weak strands through overhead arches. 

“It’s dark as pitch,” Alistair said, his voice drifting back towards her through the shadow. “There could be half a Darkspawn army here and we wouldn’t know it.” 

Flora slid the staff to the front of her body, rubbing her palm in a circle around one end. The wood began to gleam, faint at first; then brighter, like a fire stoked vigorously with a poker. Moments later, a golden, heatless flame illuminated them in a pool of shifting light, stray beams piercing the darkness as she moved the staff back over her shoulder. Alistair gave a small grunt of appreciation, not quite willing to acknowledge  _ out loud  _ the usefulness of her magic.

The lower floor of the tower had been used as a storage area; the hollowed concentric chambers filled with crates and empty stands. Ordinary objects cast strange shadows against the wall. The air was unnaturally still, as though Ishal itself was holding its breath. A foul odour drifted from somewhere beyond their sight: sweet and putrid at once. 

“That’s the smell of Darkspawn,” Alistair said in hushed tones, the walls conveying his own words back to him. “How can there be Darkspawn up here? Maker’s Breath.”

Flora shrugged her shoulders, then realised that he was not looking at her, and mumbled a small  _ dunno  _ in response. The fine hairs on the backs of her arms were standing on end, and she could taste fear in the back of her throat. 

“So, I suppose we need to find the stairs now,” Alistair continued, forcing his mind back to their mission. “We have to get to the top of this place and light the beacon.” 

Flora angled her head back, peering into the gloom-shrouded air overhead. The vaulted ceiling was lost in the shadows, but she could count at least four circular balconies below it. 

“It’s a very  _ tall _ tower,” she whispered, the light lurching as she adjusted her staff from one shoulder to the other. “There’ll be a lot of steps.”

“You’re from a Circle,” Alistair replied, setting off determinedly across the chamber with his footsteps echoing about him. “You should be _used_ to steps.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooohhh it’s all about to kick off!!


	18. Warden’s Fall

Stone faces, their features blurred with age, gazed sightless down on the two junior Wardens as they made their way across the shadowed floor. Ishal towered above them like a silent sentinel from a century past, armoured with buttresses and vaulted archways. There was no light save for the sallow trickle of the moon through the windows, and the pale lemon-flesh glow of the young mender’s staff. A cold, suffocating darkness claimed both the air before them and behind them.

“Do you think there are ghosts here?” 

“Ghosts?” Alistair repeated the word as though it were foreign, frowning over his shoulder at her. “What? No, no - I doubt it.”

Flora did not look entirely convinced. Nor was she convinced that her shield could keep out an enemy of phantasmagorical nature.

_ Can my shield keep out ghosts? _

** _Concentrate!_ **

At the foot of the steps, they found the corpse of a priestess. From the front, she appeared as though she were sleeping - eyes closed, mouth slack - but her back had been opened by claw-marks so deep that the white of her ribs was visible. There was no time to tend to her body in the manner that her faith expected: there was a beacon awaiting them many floors above. 

Alistair advanced cautiously up the steps, which curved to follow the contour of the tower. He found himself reluctantly grateful for Flora’s staff; gilded light swelled around them in defiance of the lurking shadow. He had his sword aloft in one hand, his shield strapped to his other arm. Flora followed a step behind, her mouth turned unhappily downwards. She was no stranger to corpses - in Herring, they washed up on the beach every week or so - but the brutal manner of the priestess’ death had upset her. In her mind, the Waking Sea was entitled to its tithe of lives: it allowed men to fish it, to harness its waters and journey across it. The Darkspawn were entitled to nothing; they inflicted devastation for no discernible reason. 

“Is this tower as tall as Kinloch Hold?” she whispered, tugging on her staff to avoid it colliding with the wall. Her question reverberated in the air around them and she flinched; it felt as though she had inadvertently disturbed a tomb. 

“What?” Alistair was distracted, the point of his sword leading him onwards. “Oh. I don’t know, maybe? How many floors did Kinloch- ”

The Genlock erupted from the upper landing towards them, emerging from the shadows with a ghastly shriek. It hurled itself forwards, gravity aiding its deadly flight; its blade carving up the air. Letting out a yell, Alistair thrust his shield up to deflect the creature’s lunge. Genlock flesh collided with flat steel; the blow staggered the young Warden as he fought to keep his balance on the narrow stair. Flora, receiving a flailing elbow to the belly, fell into a nearby alcove. 

The creature thrust its mass of bulbous, putrid flesh towards Alistair for a second time, eyes burning with heat and madness. Bracing himself against the wall, Alistair swung his sword towards it, but the curving steps were so narrow that he was unable to put his full strength behind the blow. It cut a slice into the Genlock’s shoulder, but the Darkspawn shook the blade off as though it were a child’s toy.

At the same moment, Alistair realised that there was no way that a swing of his sword could penetrate the Genlock’s rusted armour and wiry flesh. He dropped his shield with a metallic clatter and angled the blade so that its point was directed towards the creature’s throat. He lunged for it as it threw itself towards him; but it ended up colliding with a shimmering, soap-bubble curve of a shield. It’s claws scrabbled momentarily against the filmy layer of magic, broken fangs bared like a rabid Mabari. Then, at once, it found itself thrust back against the wall by the force of a blade shoved brutally through its throat.

The rough, tugging removal of the sword almost decapitated the Genlock. Alistair stepped out of the way of the putrid black-red streams that poured forth from its corpse; running in rivulets down the steps. The arcane shield had melted away like dawn mist after sunrise. A funereal stillness was restored once again, broken only by the ragged, panting breaths of the young Warden.

Flora clambered out of the alcove, alarmed at the vast quantity of spiderwebs that now clung to her body. Avoiding the bloody seepage, she retrieved her fallen staff and ascended to the step below the one occupied by Alistair. He was still trying to catch his breath, skin pale beneath the fading summer tan.

“My spirits are shouting at me,” she said, shamefaced. 

“Why?” he managed, surprised at how normal his voice sounded. “Your magic saved us.”

“I didn’t shield you the first time,” Flora continued, the corners of her full mouth turned downwards. “I fell in the spider-hole. You had to use that - that  _ thing.  _ That… shiny square.”

She waved her fingers towards the  _ thing  _ in question, barely able to look at it.

“Right. My actual shield,” he replied, deadpan. 

Flora shook her head, determination flooding the finely hewn lines of her face. 

_ “I’m  _ your  _ actual shield  _ from now on _ ,”  _ she said, stubbornly. “I’ll try not to fall into any more cobwebs - argh!”

A spider had just dropped onto her nose; she flung it away in terror. Alistair stared at her for a moment; then suppressed a sigh. 

“You’re still very  _ inexperienced,”  _ he said gently, in the tones of a battle-weary general with decades of warfare under his belt. “I think I’ll still keep my shield as a backup, but I… I appreciate it. Come on, let’s go - we’ve got to get to the beacon.”

Flora shivered: for a moment, she had forgotten the men fighting in the well of darkness below them. She thought of Cailan, gleaming like a bright golden coin against the shadow, determined to imprint himself on Fereldan legend. Nearby stood Duncan; the lupine features tinged with grey and yet still he possessed the strength of three men. He had taken her place at the king’s side, if circumstances had been different it would have been her submerged in the deep, oceanic dark of the valley. Then a pack of slavering Darkspawn crowded into her mind, bestial and white-eyed with war-lust. She thrust them bodily from her skull, not wanting to picture her commander surrounded. 

_ Can’t you tell me what’s going on down there?  _

** _No. _ **

_ Just a hint? _

** _No. _ **

They ascended to the second and then the third floor without incident; skirting the edge of the vast hollowness at the tower’s core. Their footsteps sounded loud and foreign against such a muffling silence; as though they were intruding on the tower’s meditative stillness. They saw no more Darkspawn, but Alistair pointed out a ragged pile lying half-hidden behind a column that might have once been a man. Near the foot of the next curving stair, a spreading stain clung to the tiles. It had an liquidous sheen, and gleamed a crimson response when light fell across it. Flora adjusted the angle of her staff against her shoulder, looking about for the origin of the stain. 

“They don’t usually leave their dead,” said Alistair in a hushed voice, shooting a nervous glance into the mass of oily shadow behind them. “They take them underground, or - or eat them.”

Flora took an unsteady gulp of air; like something physical, it hurt her throat as she swallowed it. Fear was running in her veins like saltwater along the rippled tracks made by a retreating tide. She was grateful for the constancy of her face; which masked what lay below with a veneer of haughty indifference.

Alistair took each step warily, his sword held before him like a torch. The wall above seemed lighter in comparison to the inky darkness below; the stone shimmering and silvered. As they arrived on the fourth floor, the reason for this altered appearance became clear. The circular chamber was ringed with arched windows, each like a gleaming eye gazing out into the night sky. The moon sailed in, pale and watery, through these ornately carved archways; daubing the flagstones with diagonal strokes of light as though an artist had crossed out his work with luminescent paint. 

Neither Flora nor Alistair appreciated the sudden illumination. They had frozen at the top of the stair - her standing so close that she was treading on the backs of his heels - staring into the vast, circular chamber. Yet their eyes were not seeing what lay before them, light and darkness in dappled accord. Instead, their eyes were following the sounds that their ears had picked up: four floors below but carried upwards by the sly, echoing acoustics of the old tower. Scrabbling, the insect-like skitter of claws against stone, grunting and slathering and snarling; as though a pack of rabid Mabari had been loosed below them. The animal noises were hung with the dressing of war: the grate of ill-fitting armour, blades crying out as they were scraped along rusting sheaths. Then, dwarfing everything, a terrible crash that made them flinch: the sound of the iron-studded doors caving in as though they were paper.

Alistair turned to Flora, the whites of his eyes standing out stark against the gloom. Their faces were identical: stripped of subtlety and complexity, and reduced to the same, raw base of fear. 

“They’re below us,” he said, as Flora dug the stubby remnants of her fingernails into her palms. 

“What broke down the door?” she whispered, the moonlight stealing all colour from her face until it was the milk-white of a Tevinter statue. 

“Probably an ogre.” Alistair looked sick. Flora, who had no idea what an ogre was, frowned. 

“A  _ noger?” _

“Let’s - ”

The cacophony had resumed but with a slightly different timbre, as though the noise had been concentrated through a funnel. 

“They’re coming up the stairs,” said Alistair, fear slackening the handsome construction of his face. “Come  _ on!”  _

They abandoned the effort to be quiet; to creep along the curving walls like mice; to preserve Ishal’s entombed stillness. Now they ran straight across the chamber, fracturing the streams of moonlight into a thousand shifting shards. Alistair’s steel sabatons hammered against the flagstones, echoed back by the encompassing cradle of stone. His strength now showed itself as it had never done before: he bore the seventy pounds of heavy armour as though it weighed nothing, easily keeping pace with the scampering Flora. She had no armour to weigh her down, but her staff tangled between her legs as though it were wilfully trying to trip her. 

The noises below were closer now, and clearer: they could discern the sounds of individual creatures now amidst the faceless mass. Alistair threw a glance around to check that Flora was still at his side: at that moment, she sprawled face first onto the stone. He swung down a gloved hand, clamping fingers around her shirt and hauling her roughly upright. 

There came another crash from downstairs that seemed to shake the tower to its foundations. 

_ Another noger?  _ Flora thought, clutching her staff to her shoulder to keep it from snaring her legs again.  _ Are they big? _

** _Ogre. And yes. Run! _ **

They had reached the steps that led to the fifth floor, clattering up them with no heed for the noise they were making. The stairs followed the curving contour of the tower, wide and shallow; pitted with the tread of seven generations. Sconces set into the walls housed only dust and cobwebs. Alistair led the way, sword held out before him as though it were a torch. The only light came from the head of Flora’s staff, and it swung a golden swathe with every rapid step. 

The shadows at the fifth floor landing disgorged something half-formed towards them: a Hurlock, but one missing an arm and half of it’s face. A spiked chain crashed against the wall with a shower of papery dust, one end gripped by the Darkspawn’s only remaining hand. 

Alistair ducked the chain - it went straight over Flora’s head - and lunged forward, the hilt of his sword grasped with both hands. The second swing of the chain collided with the glinting egg-shell of Flora’s shield; which clung to Alistair like ethereal armour. A howl slid from the Hurlock’s throat as it fell back, dazed by the sudden blaze of light against the gloom. Alistair seized the advantage, thrusting the blade bodily through the creature’s chest as if it were a blunt object. 

His brutal shove aimed true: the blade cut through the corrupted heart like it was rotten meat. The Hurlock swayed and seemed about to plunge forwards, Alistair gave it a shove with his boot and it fell back into the shadows. Exhaling a taut lungful, the young Warden withdrew his sword with a grunt and wiped off the excess gore on the edge of the step.

_ Was that better?  _ Flora thought as her shield melted away in a soft cascade of fading sparks.  _ I was faster that time. _

** _Yes. Hurry! _ **

With each floor that they ascended, the stairs curved more tightly and the landings grew smaller. The strange acoustics of the tower cast up the dread cacophony from below, as though the horde was slavering at their heels. They had no way of knowing the distance between them and the pursuing enemy. All the while, as they ran, their hearts beat out a similar panicked rhythm:  _ why are Darkspawn up here? Something must have happened.  _

Flora, who had never been in a battle before, could not comprehend that they could go  _ wrong.  _ She had seen the king, the general, her commander all standing in their armour at a table covered in maps: the king had talked confidently of victory, the other two had made sounds of agreement. They had been so tall, so stalwart, so brilliant in their light-reflecting armour: how could a plan devised by those three go astray? Duncan had pointed out to her the thousands of men encamped in the alley below, tiny as crawling ants from their lofty position. Each man had arms and armour; there was no lack of provisions. How could it all go wrong? 

Disaster struck on the seventh floor: the reverberation of the tower’s foundations had caused a collapse of the main stair. By the time that they had navigated the rubble - no easy task for Alistair in his full armour - and found an alternate route upwards, the horde was so close that they could discern individual snarls within the mass of sound. Just ahead, Flora could hear her brother-warden muttering in a low, continuous stream to himself as he lurched up the steps. She did not know whether he was praying or cursing, but there was a desperate edge to the words. 

A nondescript door emerged from the shadows: it shuddered, but did not yield when Alistair tugged at the iron handle. He put his shoulder to the venerable wood and shoved, fear augmenting his strength. The door gave way, and suddenly the corridor was filled with a shrieking wind, and rain tossed into their faces. 

Shielding his face, Alistair made his way through the doorway, emerging onto a precarious stone walkway that encircled Ishal’s upper reach. Only a crumbling parapet stood guard before a dizzying drop to the main fortress; and an even greater one to the valley floor, still eerily submerged in darkness. The flagstones were slick underfoot, the rain blown sideways into their faces by a callous mountain wind. Cruelly, the moon had now emerged in its plush white mantle; as though determined to illuminate the precariousness of their situation.

At the same moment, a roar came blasting out from the bowels of the tower; echoing down the passage that they had just emerged from. A foul, animal stench followed them onto the balcony. It became clear in an instant: the horde had caught up. 

“Alistair!”

Alistair turned around, his face ragged with panic.  _ What,  _ his lips formed; the word stolen by the sly whipping of the air swirling about the tower.  _ What?  _

“You go and light the beacon,” Flora bellowed, hurling her words from her throat to drown out the wind. “I’ll stay here.”

He stared at her for a moment, flicks of damp golden hair plastered to his forehead. His expression was unreasonable, the corner of his mouth twitching compulsively. 

_ “What?”  _

Flora pulled her staff over her shoulder, fumbling with the rain-slickened wooden length. One end still blazed away like a sun in miniature; the heatless light waxing over her tunic without consequence. 

“Go,” she shouted back over the increasing howl of the wind. “I’ll stop them from coming after you.” 

There was a distance in her pale eyes: her spirits were whispering from beyond the Fade. Alistair half-reached a hand towards her, then retracted it rapidly as a snarl came echoing down the passage. He swore under his breath, then gave a taut nod; at the same time, flinching as though he had been struck. 

“Flora- ”

_ “Go!”  _ she ordered, flailing a pointed finger upwards. “They’re waiting for us!” 

It was unclear whether she was referring to the King, the other Wardens, their commander, or perhaps all three. Alistair stared a moment longer, then turned, ducking beneath a protruding stone buttress and vanishing from sight. 

Flora returned her attention to the hissed instructions coming from beyond the Veil; their voices unimpeded by wind or rain. 

** _Quickly. Use your staff: the barrier will be stronger._ **

_ What’s happening in the valley? _

** _Don’t get distracted. _ **

As Flora held out her staff, a thread of golden light streamed from both ends. The delicate strand looped itself around until the staff hung suspended in the air. Letting go, Flora tried not to focus on the terrible noises echoing down the passageway. She had once been frightened of the cacophony coming from the Mabari kennels; that was as nothing compared to this infernal howling. 

As the shield began to weave itself into a glinting, fibrous existence, Flora nipped round one unfurling edge. 

_ I’ll just close the door,  _ she thought naively , shoving the warped wood back into place with her shoulder.  _ That’ll keep them out a little longer.  _

** _Get back! _ ** yowled her general spirit, angrily.  ** _The door will do nothing, silly girl. _ **

Flora obediently scampered back around the shield, which now resembled a great golden fishing net, stretching the width of the balcony. Each intertwining strand flowed into the next like liquid metal, reflecting shards of light in each falling raindrop. It was oddly beautiful, and she found herself gazing at it in astonishment. 

_ I didn’t know I could do this. _

** _You never had cause before. _ **

_ How are we going to get off this tower? _

There was no reply. Flora sighed, prodding one of the liquid strands and watching the light flow over her nail. The wind had yanked much of her hair from her ponytail, the rain was blown sideways to soak her tunic. She put a hand to her breast, feeling the soft crumple of parchment against her skin. Duncan had said:  _ keep this safe. _

“What kind of fish could I catch with you?” she wondered out loud, returning her attention to the suspended, gleaming net. “A  _ shoal.  _ A whole- ”

The door blew outwards, smashed into smithereens by a fist the size of a cartwheel. The shards of wood hit Flora’s shield and were deflected in all directions, scattering onto the flagstones. A shape appeared in the doorway, vast and crouched over to fit the constraints of the passageway. It’s features were hidden by shadow, but Flora could see a pair of small, deep-set red eyes gleaming against the gloom. 

_ Is that a noger? Not as big as the giants that wander near Herring,  _ Flora thought, staring at it from behind her fish-net shield.  _ Uglier, though. _

It raised a length of iron-studded wood which served as a makeshift club, lashing it against her shield. Although she had not been physically struck, the shock jolted the balance from her. Flora fell backwards, and for a horrifying moment thought that she was about to tumble over the edge. As she clutched the parapet, she saw the fishing-net shield flicker; the glow diminishing. The staff, caught in golden tangles, began to droop.

** _Focus! _ ** her spirits screamed at her.  ** _Focus, or it will fail._ **

A guttural noise slid from the ogre’s throat like a corpse clambering from the grave. It raised it’s club for a second blow; Flora scrambled to her feet and reached out to clamp the staff in her sweaty fist. Immediately it rose to its former position, the net flashing like wire in firelight. 

Flora cringed from the blow when it came, feeling her heart swell in her throat until she was almost choking with fear. 

_ You wouldn’t let anything happen to me, would you?  _ she thought, seeing more malformed silhouettes blocking the light in the passage.  _ You’ve always protected me.  _

There came a long pause.

** _Keep your focus._ **

Flora did as she was told, feeling the familiar, effervescent prickle of her magic beneath her fingernails. She knew that she was merely a conduit for the favour of her spirits; a medium for them to reach through the Veil and touch the mortal world. Darker shapes swarmed from the passageway, clustering on the other side of her shield; cast into shadow by the pulsing light. 

Then, overhead, something equally bright blazed into life. It was bright, coppery orange of an autumn leaf, and twisted in the wind like a hanged man from the gibbet. Flora realised that it was the beacon, that Alistair must have reached the top terrace and completed their task. The smoke curled acrid on her tongue and she felt a swell of pride in her belly. 

_ “Alistair!”  _ she shouted, her words snatched away by a swirling wind. “Alistair!” 

The horde were hurling themselves at her barrier now; clambering over their twisted brethren to claw at the effervescent net. The fatty hiss and crackle of the bonfire above was accompanied by the sound of their clamouring for death; undercut with the triumphant shriek of the wind. 

Then, the flagstones began to tremble beneath her: a great rumble rolling up from the very base of the tower until the whole structure seemed to be shaking from root to roof. There came a cascade of falling stone; expelled dust mixing with the mass of smoke. The Darkspawn were little more than seething silhouettes in the miasma; her fishing-net shield gleaming like half-sunk treasure in a billow of sand. 

Disorientated, Flora groped around for the parapet; her fingers closed around empty air. 

_ What’s happening!?  _

** _Don’t fall._ **

_ Is the tower coming down?  _

** _Help is coming. _ **

_ Is it the other Wardens?  _

There was no reply. The skies above darkened as something passed over the cold white eye of the moon. Flora felt the flagstones breaking apart beneath her and she dropped to her knees, groping blindly for her staff. Her barrier disintegrated into a shower of golden sparks; illuminating the smoke and dust like a thousand tiny lanterns. Then, without warning, the world seemed to shrink to a small, dark point and she dropped into darkness; her fall accompanied by the beating of leathery wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh RIP Daddy Duncan D: 
> 
> In the original story I had just one chapter that included everything from the meeting with Duncan and Cailan, the preparation for the battle, and the tower of Ishal stuff! So I decided to break it up into 3 chapters. I also added more detail to their ascent up the tower - made it so they faced less enemies, but more descriptive. I also wanted Flora to come across as more naive and inexperienced in dangerous situations. 
> 
> Happy new year!!


	19. After The Fall

_ She is a pebble at the bottom of the Waking Sea: small and inconsequential, chipped from the base of some lofty granite cliff.  _

_ She lies all but buried in the sand and her companions are fish, and fronded plants, and the half-formed things that live in low places. The tide washes in and out overhead, and every so often the sun is blocked by a vast, elongated shadow: the hull of a boat.  _

_ She has no concept of time, or that she was ever anything other than a pebble. The fish whisk intently past her as though they had business to conduct. They are not brilliant in colour like the fish that dwell off the coasts of hotter places; but plainer fish taste better.  _

_ Whenever the sand shifts at the rough eddying of the water, what once was hidden is revealed again. A ship’s anchor, encrusted in barnacles like an Orlesian countess draped in jewels. A lockbox disgorging its contents into the mud.  _

_ A skeleton, a gilded band around a hairless skull, turns its head and flops open a jaw.  _

_ It says to the pebble that was Flora:  _ ** _Time to wake up._ **

** _Time to wake up. We have mended you. _ **

“At last,” came a voice: dry and acerbic, as though spoken through lips curled with distaste. “The little girl wakes.”

Flora felt as though she were being drawn up from the bottom of the ocean, like an anchor pulled through layers of increasingly clear water. She became aware of the smell first: animal, herbal, vaguely medicinal - with an edge of something potent and unidentifiable that made her nostrils curl. Then she felt the ache that ran the length of her body: a dull throb that sharpened to a point in her left knee. A flutter of panic ran through her and despite the protest from her aching flesh, she bolted upright without warning. 

Someone recoiled from her with a catlike hiss. Flora rubbed her fists into her eyes like a child, feeling the pressure of her knuckles. Slowly, her surroundings clarified around her; patches of light and shadow fading into recognisable objects. She was sitting on a spread of animal furs - explaining the musky scent - alongside a wall constructed from tightly-packed earth. The room appeared to be a single-chambered dwelling, with a cook pot in the centre and an odd, mismatched assortment of furniture. One wall was entirely covered with haphazard shelving, containing dozens of glass vials. On a nearby table were a heap of half-skinned rabbits. 

She turned her attention to the woman kneeling beside her, who was adjusting a slender bone thrust into a tangle of dark hair. Leather and furs were draped carelessly around a lean, muscled body; the long nails were caked with earth and there was a smear of something brown on her cheek. Her mouth was a bright red slash, the teeth small and pointed. 

The corners of Flora’s mouth turned down and the woman recoiled in distaste. 

“Ah! Do not expect me to comfort you if you start  _ crying,”  _ she hissed, appalled. “I cannot stand the sound.”

“I weren’t going to  _ cry _ ,” replied an indignant Flora. “I was going to frown. See?”

She drew her brows downwards in a scowl; emulating her Herring brethren. The woman stared at her for a long moment; the golden, lionlike eyes narrowing. 

“Perhaps her brains have been scrambled in the fall,” the woman mused, more to herself than Flora. “‘Tis the only explanation for such vacuousness. Tell me, little girl, do you remember who I am?”

Flora made a valiant effort to pull her mind from her injured knee. She was clothed in her smalls and wrapped in a blanket, her lower half hidden beneath a heavy fur that smelt faintly of mildew. Her fingers groped for the bend in her leg; the flesh swollen and tender. 

“You’re the lady we saw in the Wilds,” she said, feeling the golden mist rising from beneath her fingernails. “Where am I? What happened?”

The woman hesitated for the briefest moment, the corner of her crimson mouth twitching. Then she retreated, pushing upwards - a glimpse of bare thigh through the draped leather - and heading towards the cooking pot. Grasping the handle, she gave it a vigorous, rather vicious stir.

_ We were on top of the Tower,  _ Flora thought to herself when it became clear that the woman would offer no answers, groping around in her memory.

_ We had to light the beacon. To signal General Mac Tir.  _

_ Alistair and I. The king sent us together. _

Flora blinked, a small knot of dread forming deep in her belly. She felt as though she had been shipwrecked: washed up on some strange shore surrounded by scattered objects and the broken remnants of her vessel. 

“What happened in the battle?” she asked, lifting her knee above the fur with a grimace. “There was a battle, in the valley, at Ostagar- against the Darkspawn. Did we - did we not win?”

Too frightened to look at the woman’s face in case her expression gave away the answer, Flora put her mouth to her knee. She thought she might be sick, but when she parted her lips, only gilded particles of energy rose from her throat; straying out like fireflies at dusk. 

“No,” said the woman bluntly, ladling a spoonful of greenish stew into a roughly hewn wooden cup. “You lost.” 

“We  _ lost?”  _

Flora almost choked on her own magic, fingers clamping convulsively on her knee. 

“Yes,” her companion replied, replacing the lid on the cook pot. “The Grey Wardens are slain. Your king is dead on the field. The Darkspawn have seized the valley, and your fort. Not a very good day for you, all be told.”

Flora felt something splinter within her, as though her belly was made of driftwood and someone had shoved their boot through it. She was half-aware that something strange was happening to the bone in her knee; but she was so preoccupied that she paid it no heed. Her ancient spirit flared a voiceless warning in her head; clarified into words by her general. 

** _Focus! _ ** it hissed, alarmed.  ** _You are doing yourself harm. _ **

Flora paid no attention. 

“The Wardens are dead?” she whispered, sure that she was about to be sick. “All of them?”

“All,” said the woman, bringing Flora the bowl and dropping it ill-temperedly before her. “Drink up. Mother says you need your strength - oh, blast and damnation, I thought you said that you weren’t going to cry!” 

Abandoning the healing of her knee, Flora put her face in her hands. The woman eyed her for a moment, then let out a huff of distaste; retreating to a small, three-legged stool beside the pot. 

_ Duncan’s dead? _

** _Yes._ **

_ Are you… are you sure? _

There followed a vaguely irritated silence: her spirits knew well who had died and who had not. Flora dug her knuckles into her eyes and gasped; she felt as though she had been dashed against the Hag’s Teeth.

_ I’m drowning. I’m drowning. _

** _Breathe. _ **

Obedient even in the crushing, oceanic depths of her despair, Flora took a deep breath, and then another. As she focused on her breathing, the tears dried into tiny, salt-flecked flecks on her cheeks. 

_ Will you look after his soul?  _ she pleaded silently, twisting the ragged hem of the blanket .  _ Will you make sure the demons don’t claim it?  _

There was a pause, then - gentler than usual- ** _ yes._ **

A miserable Flora returned her attention to her knee, but her heart was not in her healing. She looked up once again at the woman, who was picking at her teeth with a long shard of bone.

“King Cailan is dead,” she sought to clarify, sniffling. “And the Wardens. What… what happened? Alistair lit the beacon, I remember now. That was the signal for the army to join in.”

“It seems that the king was betrayed,” the woman said, shrugging a bare shoulder. “The man who leads the army - I know not his name, no, don’t tell me, I care not - paid no heed to the signal. He called for a retreat.” 

At first, Flora could not comprehend the woman’s words. She blinked, her pale brow furrowing. 

“Betrayed?” she croaked at last, barely above a whisper. “General Mac Tir didn’t send the army in? But… but that was the  _ plan!”  _

Flora summoned the scene from her memory: it stood out like a fresh-polished pearl. 

_ The king, the general, her commander. _

_ Standing at the map table, resplendent in their armour. Cailan grinning, Loghain scowling, and Duncan deliberately impassive. _

_ Counters pushed across the flat inked geography of the map: resolute and uncompromising. _

_ You: here. Us: there.  _

_ Wait for the signal. Then charge. _

“He didn’t follow the plan,” she said in outrage, summoning Loghain Mac Tir’s sallow, spare features.  _ “Why not?  _ It makes no  _ sense.  _ Now the Darkspawn are going to… to… do whatever Darkspawn do.  _ Blight  _ us.” 

The woman let out a humourless laugh, flashing her cat-eyes towards Flora.

_ “‘Blight us,’”  _ she repeated, a mocking edge to the words. “My, my. You seem to know even less than the other one, and that’s saying something.” 

Flora abandoned her knee once again, wide eyed.

“The other one?” she asked, her belly constricting with sudden hope. “Someone - someone else survived? Someone other than me?”

“Yes, yes. I had forgotten about him for a moment; he is a creature of such little consequence.” 

Something in Flora’s face must have struck an impression; the woman sighed and continued, waving a careless hand. 

“Ever since Mother brought you both back here, he’s done nothing but sit and stare at the swamp. I thought Grey Wardens were meant to be  _ great heroes- _ ” her voice dropped sarcastically, “- but I find myself impressed by neither of you. ‘Tis a shame.” 

Clutching the blanket around her shoulders, Flora clambered to her feet. She stifled a sudden gasp of pain at the sharp twinge in her knee. 

“Where is he?” she asked, then suddenly recalled the woman’s name. “Lady Mortician.”

_ “Morrigan!” _

Morrigan’s lip curled; her shaggy, dark head dipped towards the doorway. “Outside. And never address me as ‘ _ Lady’ _ again _ .”  _

Avoiding the cooking pot and the mass of tangled furs, Flora made her way towards the hanging beads that framed the doorway. Parting them with uncertain fingers -  _ her knee hurt!  _ \- she stepped barefoot out into sallow, swampy sunlight. Immediately she recognised the Wilds: the tangle of fetid marsh and soggy grassland that lay to the south of Ostagar. Everything was made more pallid by the wasting filter of the cloud-wrapped sun; the sparse vegetation was sickly and the air clung to the throat like oil. 

Flora almost did not recognise her brother-warden at first; he was slumped in such a way that he seemed to have lost half of his height. He sat on the edge of a shallow marsh, staring hard into the rushes as though they might talk back to him. Nearby, the skeleton of a broken bridge rose from the stagnant water. 

He heard her approach, barefooted across the damp grass; but mistook her for their dark-haired host. Without looking, he jerked an irritable shoulder.

“I don’t want anything to eat,” he muttered, gazing ahead without blinking. “Thanks. How is she?”

“Awake,” said Flora, realising that he thought she was Morrigan. 

Alistair turned as she sat on the grass beside him, the burnt hazel of his irises in stark contrast to the staring whites surrounding them. The corner of his mouth trembled as he saw her; he reached out to grip her blanket-covered elbow. 

“Thank the Maker,” he croaked, his eyes suddenly damp. “I’d hoped - I saw your body mending itself - I  _ prayed _ that you’d wake.”

It was the first time that he had put a hand on her without explicit instruction. Flora offered him a tiny, wan smile; her own gaze moving anxiously over his face. 

“Alistair,” she breathed, deciding not to enquire about how long it had taken for her body to heal - or how severe her injuries had been. “Alistair, are you hurt? Can I mend anything?”

She had already darted a quick glance over his body and ascertained that there was no obvious injury; though something might have been hidden under the leather. But Alistair shook his head woefully, retracting his hand.

“I’m not hurt,” he said quietly. “I’m probably the only person to come out of Ostagar with not even a scratch to show for it.”

Flora, under the impression that this was a good thing, did not understand why he spoke in such a melancholy tone. She stretched out her bare legs on the damp grass, watching a beetle wander an erratic path over her calf. Alistair returned his gaze to the reed-fringed water before them, his fingers clenching into fists. He said nothing further, but Flora - as a northerner and Herring native - was used to silence. She made no effort to fill the air with words; instead, she leaned back on her elbows and tried to ignore the insistent  _ throb-throb _ of her knee.

The sun settled behind a mourning shroud of pallid cloud, and shadow crept over the Wilds like the slow spread of lichen. A bird called out to an absent mate; the fringe of reeds around the water rustled as something crept through them. 

“I thought he was invincible,” said Alistair, a humourless half-laugh escaping his throat. “It seems foolish now. He always warned us not to become complacent, that… that one of the inevitabilities of being a Warden was death. But I never thought that - that he would be- you know?”

Flora thought about what Duncan had said to her in the tent, about his body and mind succumbing to the rising tide of the taint. She did not mention this to Alistair, instead giving a soft grunt of agreement.

“Everyone’s dead, except us,” he continued despairingly, the words raw as they emerged from his throat. “I mean, I don’t know about the bordermen, or Cailan’s guard - maybe some of them escaped - but all of the Wardens are dead. It’s just the two of us left.”

Flora thrust aside her own sadness for their commander, recognising the added depth of Alistair’s grief. He had been a Warden for over a year, she barely a month. She had never got to know their brethren - after Duncan’s warning, they had avoided her like the plague - but Alistair had drunk ritewine with them, listened in fascination to their stories and fought at their side. She did not say anything, but let a tentative hand drop onto his arm, light as a fallen leaf. He glanced at her small, nailbitten fingers and made no protest; in some small way, grateful even for the touch of a mage. 

At last, he glanced sideways at her, the corner of his mouth flickering. 

“Did you forget to put on your clothes?” 

Flora looked down at the bare legs stretching from beneath the blanket, her toes brushing the reeds. 

“Mm, I didn’t think about it,” she replied honestly, then cast her eyes over her brother-warden’s garb. She recognised the plain grey linen; her suspicions confirmed by the embroidered cross near the hem. “Are you dressed like a  _ Templar _ ?”

Alistair nodded, shoulder twitching in a rueful shrug.

“The witch gave them to me. Her and her mother have a whole stash of clothing - and armour - in this big chest. Maker knows where they’ve scavenged it all from. I don’t want to know.”

He took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes tight for a moment; then rose to his feet. Flora wondered again at how tall he was, then clambered up in his wake. Her knee gave a sting of protest and she inhaled sharply, feeling a flutter of alarm in her belly. 

Alistair, who had been about to head towards the hut, glanced at her in surprise.

“Are you alright?”

Flora hesitated, testing her weight gingerly on the sore limb. It throbbed, but held. 

“I didn’t do a good job of healing my knee,” she said in a small voice. “It still hurts.”

He gazed at her for a moment and then sighed, the roughness of his expression easing a fraction.

“Come on. Let’s find you some trousers.”

Flora felt a tug of memory; recalling how he had said the same thing to her when they had first arrived at Ostagar. There had been no Grey Warden uniform that fitted her, and so she had been swaddled in the tent-like garb of a dwarf.

Inside the hut, Morrigan was crouching on the earthen floor, rolling a cracked yellow object about her palm. The stone, on closer inspection, proved to be a lizard’s eye, cast in resin. Alistair flinched and averted his gaze, folding his lips tightly together. 

“Do you have anything my sister-warden could wear? She can’t go around in a blanket.”

“ _ ‘Sister-warden _ ,’” repeated Morrigan, derisive. “I never heard anything more ridiculous in my life. Well, what we could scavenge from you when you arrived is in that pile- ” a nail extended towards a heap against the stone wall, “- but we have some spare garb in the chest. Take what you must and bother me no further!”

Flora ventured towards the pile, feeling oddly hesitant. She wondered if taking hold of her ruined possessions might somehow transport her back to the top of Ishal; with the rain whipping in her face and the wind screaming about the parapets like a demon escaped from the Fade.

** _Don’t be ridiculous._ **

_ Stop eavesdropping on me!  _

Still, she took a deep breath and folded herself beside the ragged pile; reaching out gingerly to tug at a tattered sleeve. Much of the clothing she had worn at the tower seemed to be torn beyond repair, and stained an alarming reddish brown. Her heart leapt to her throat as she pulled free her tunic, reaching inside the loosened buttons. To her relief she drew out the roll of faded parchment; blood-spattered but intact. Duncan’s words reverberated through her mind, his cadence low and faintly reminiscent of a distant shore. 

_ These letters are important. Keep them safe.  _

Alistair was preoccupied with glowering at Morrigan, who was caressing the gleaming end of her blackthorn staff with indolent glee. Fat scarlet droplets, like gobbets of blood, fell from the dark tangle of wood; melting away before they could splatter the earthen floor. Flora tucked the roll of parchment inside her blanket, then turned her attention to the last of her worldly goods; piled in a sad little heap.

Her boots were redeemable, though a small split near one toe would need a cobbler’s attention at some point. The rest of her clothing was beyond repair: it looked as though it had been savaged. Despondent, she drew out the broken halves of her staff and set them to one side. 

“I can’t wear any of this,” she said, apologetically. “It’s more holes than clothes. Could I borrow something?”

Morrigan waved a disinterested hands towards a warped wooden chest, held together with iron bands. She returned her attention to her staff, caressing the blackthorn like a beloved pet. Flora worried that the clothing would be in a similar vein to the fragments of leather and fur clinging to the mage’s tawny skin. As a northerner, she preferred ugly clothing that provided warmth and bulk. 

The chest was filled with an eclectic mixture of armour, woollens and crumpled linen. To her relief, she managed to dig out a shapeless long-sleeved garment in navy wool, pairing it with the first pair of decent-smelling breeches that she could find. 

“‘Tis  _ bewildering _ to me,” the self-proclaimed witch commented, eyeing Flora with beady disapproval. “Why would any woman desire to completely  _ obliterate  _ their figure?”

Flora did not know what  _ obliterate  _ meant, so she offered only a solemn nod of agreement; oddly comforted by the rustle of bound parchment at her breast. 

_ Keep them safe.  _

Morrigan was clearly in no mood to host guests. After shoving two more bowls of the suspect stew at them - a newly lean-cheeked Alistair refused to eat - she stormed towards the doorway in a clatter of leather and small bones. The fire pulled in her wake as a draught blew in, then settled back in the hearth. 

Flora stirred her spoon around the bowl, listening to the dull  _ scrape-scrape  _ of metal against wood. She had no idea what the stew contained, but Flora had never been a fussy eater. When times were lean as a child, they had cooked seaweed up into a broth and eaten nothing but that; sometimes for days or even weeks. Swallowing a lump of something spongy, she nudged her toes into Alistair’s knee. He looked up at her as though he did not know who she was. 

“Alistair?”

“Hm - yes?”

“How long is Ferelden?”

He blinked, momentarily shaken from his brooding by the oddness of the question. 

“How  _ long?  _ Do you mean, how long has it existed? How long is the current age? How long has it been independent?”

Flora meant none of these and certainly not the latter; the events of recent history were a mystery to her. She thought for a moment, then stretched her hands out to illustrate.

“Oh,” said Alistair, understanding.  _ “Distance.  _ Well, which direction?” 

“From north,” Flora said, then paused. “We’re in the south now, ain’t we? From north to south.” 

His brow creased, then he spoke; setting his stew to one side on the tightly packed earth.

“Three and a half-hundred miles, perhaps?”

Flora could not count beyond the number of ribs in a grown human. She swallowed the last mouthful of her stew, which made its way painfully down her throat. 

“Is that a… a long way?”

Alistair grimaced: not  _ long  _ again! 

“It’s not too far,” he said, after a moment. “But it’s not right around the corner. About a week and a half on horseback. Why?”

But Flora had fallen into a well of thought, her brow furrowed and the spoon motionless in the dish. Alistair gave a shrug and returned his gaze to the fire below the cooking pot; watching the ashy tendrils wend their way towards the small hole in the ceiling. Realising that he was not going to finish his stew, Flora - who could not tolerate wasted food - silently exchanged their bowls. 

Night had crept in, sly as a thief. Darkness in the Wilds had a different quality to its companion in more civilised parts: it was velvet, furred and cloying; it had long fingers that stroked the skin like the touch of an insect. It was not black, but a hundred shades of grey, creating shadows from nothing and smothering noise until little more than an echo remained. 

When it became clear that their reluctant host had no plan to return that evening, Flora and Alistair retired to the clump of tangled furs that served as their bedding. Alistair, still mired in grief, took off his boots without a word; stretching out next to the coarse stone. Flora, aware that there was no breastplate-barrier, made sure that there was a courteous foot of space between them. She pulled the fur up to her chin and stared upwards into the shifting shadow, inhaling peat smoke and some unidentifiable burning herb. 

“Flora?”

Alistair’s voice came disembodied from the dark; like the unfettered whispers of her spirits. 

“Mm,” she replied, turning her head. He was still facing the wall, shoulders hunched. 

“I’m… I’m glad that you’re alright.”

“Me too.” 

In the small hours of the night, isolated in the darkness; Flora woke with a start. She had been dreaming of  _ something _ , but the contents of her dream were slipping from her mind with each moment that passed: like the slack line of a fishing net. She thought that perhaps she had dreamt of Ishal, or the  _ noger,  _ or of her commander. Then she thought that she might have been dreaming that she was a  _ pebble _ , which was a definite demotion from her favourite fantasy (being a fish). As she gazed up at the curving stone wall above her head, Flora heard a muffled, damp noise from beside her. Alistair had rolled in his sleep to face her; his handsome face contorted in a grimace. His brow was furrowed like a fresh-ploughed field, his lips drawn back over his teeth like a creature caught in a trap. The fine comb of his eyelashes were wet and clumped together.

Flora stretched out a hand, broaching the breastplate barrier that now existed only in her imagination. She began to stroke her fingertip down his nose and across his forehead, smoothing out the angry creases.

_ “Ssh, ssh, ssh.”  _

The corner of his mouth twitched; a soft groan escaped his throat. 

_ “Ssh, ssh, ssh.”  _

Gradually, the wide olive brow was smooth once again; the shuddering chest relaxing into a more natural rhythm. Flora patted her brother-warden gently on the tip of his noble’s nose, then drew back her hand, rolled over and went straight to sleep. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I redid this whole chapter! I wanted to get these things across more clearly: Alistair’s grief and Flora’s naive disbelief that they had lost the battle. She also doesn’t really understand the vast consequences of the loss, and is more concerned about the possible impact on Herring (hence her asking about the distance between Ostagar and the north) I also wanted to draw attention to the rare occasion of Flora completely fucking up her healing during the mending of her knee - her lack of focus meant that she grew the bone back carelessly and ill-fitting.
> 
> Incidentally, the measurement of a ‘mile’ came into common usage around 1500. It derives from the Latin ‘mille’, which means ‘one thousand’ - the reasoning being that a thousand paces would equal a mile. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! And reader Desert, I can’t reply to you in PM so I’ll reply here! You asked whether Flora can sense the presence of the Darkspawn - she can to a minor degree, since her spirits are controlling/containing the taint within her bloodstream for their own purpose. So she can’t sense them to the same extent as Alistair could! But at the moment she isn’t able to identify that the prickling in her mind means Darkspawn near! Firstly, she has a lot going on in her mind with her spirits talking to her, and secondly nobody has explained the impact of the taint to her. Duncan has been too busy preparing for the final battle to explain the consequences of the taint to her! Thank you so much for the question, it’s really fun to think about all this and work it out in my head! <3


	20. The Warden Treaties

As though compensating for the trauma of recent days, Flora’s spirits permitted her to indulge in her favourite pastime that night: a fantastical dream where she was transformed into a part-girl, part-fish. After several hours of exploring the depths of the Waking Sea, her general-spirit decided that _ enough was enough, _and thrust her back through the Fade as though propelled by the sudden blast of a whale-spout. 

Flora woke abruptly, mouthing for air. As her vision clarified, a woman’s face framed by shadow appeared above her. It was a face that must have once been beautiful: it hung from high, finely cut cheekbones. Countless years had withered the skin that clung to the artful bone; creased like a sheet of parchment crunched in a fist. The mouth and eyes were framed with sprays of deep crevasses. Hair the deep, rich grey of pewter dangled in knotted tangles, like lengths of fishing rope. Yet, the eyes were a feline, thrilling shade of amber; they had a light of their own in the gloom. 

“She’s awake, then,” the woman said, in a voice that scraped like a rusted gate. She was not talking to Flora, but to some other unknown party. “I wasn’t impressed when I plucked her from the rubble; I remain unimpressed.”

Flora, used to being woken by irritable strangers from her tenure in the Circle, peered up at the old woman. From the corner of her eye, she could see a hollow space where Alistair had formerly been lying; the furs still shaped around his absent body. 

“She’s a comely_ child,” _ said the stranger, addressing her words above Flora’s head. “She knows about as much of the world as Morrigan, which is precious little.” 

This confused Flora somewhat; she had assumed that the woman had been talking _ to _Morrigan. 

“And Ferelden is to be entrusted to her? An ornamental creature more suited to life on a mantel or in a glass case?”

Flora decided to interject: a question had been nagging at her since she had noticed her brother-warden’s absence.

“Have you eaten Alistair?”

The woman stopped her conversation with the air, orange eyes focusing on Flora’s face with some incredulity.

“Have I _ eaten - ?!” _

Flora’s spirits flared in the back of her head.

** _Introduce yourself. _ **

“My name is Flora,” she said, still lying flat on her back amidst the furs. “Flora, Pel’s daughter.”

In her mind the clarification was necessary: Flora was a common peasant girl’s name, and there were four dwelling in Herring alone.

The woman snorted in a surprisingly juvenile manner. 

_ “Flora, Pel’s daughter,” _ she replied, mockingly. _ “Ha! _Well, if there are to be introductions: I am Flemeth, Morrigan’s mother. And my last husband gave me indigestion so I’ve no more appetite for men: Alistair is outside, staring at the swamp. He remains unconsumed.”

Flora returned her attention to the woman, who was draped in a motley collection of furs and leathers; roughly hewn, as though hacked straight from the animal’s back. She could feel the prickle of the arcane in her throat, and realised that she was in the presence of a powerful mage.

** _Thank her for saving you, _ **prompted Flora’s spirits, like a parent reminding a child that gratitude was required after receiving a gift.

“Thank you for saving me,” repeated Flora obediently, and the woman let out a cackle; springing up with surprising agility. 

“Come on, come on. You need to get some food in that belly of yours.”

Flora decided that she quite liked this strange, old, tangled-up mage. Clambering to her feet, she grimaced at an unwelcome twinge from her knee. Still, the rustle of Duncan's papers at her breast comforted her as she followed Flemeth to the centre of the hut. It was then Flora noticed Morrigan, perched on a bench in the corner with a distinctly sulky expression. The dark haired witch did not greet her, or acknowledge her presence in any way; merely let out a quiet _ huff _under her breath. A flicker of annoyance passed across the old mage’s face, which she made no attempt to hide. 

“Morrigan, if the Wilds are soon to be overrun with Darkspawn then you must learn how to interact with others in society,” Flemeth commented acerbically, using a bony hip to knock Flora onto a nearby stool. 

“Please don’t nag me, Mother. ‘Tis most _ annoying.” _

Flemeth made a click of disapproval with her tongue, shoving a plate of smoked meat towards Flora, charred beyond recognition.

“I know you have had an _ isolated _upbringing, girl, but the winds are changing about us and we must alter our course or be blown astray.”

“Isolated,” retorted Morrigan, with a flash of her mother’s feline eyes. “Except for the menfolk you bring back here.”

“Don’t show me your cheek, daughter, or- ”

“You’ll _ what, _Mother? No, don’t tell me, I have my suspicions!” 

There was a quiver of tension in the air like a fresh-plucked lute string. Both women then looked towards the open-mouthed Flora, who was listening, agog. Flora took her plate and hastily rose to her feet. 

“I’m going to see if Alistair wants to break his fast,” she said, picking up a flagon of weak ale and wondering if they were going to start hurling spells at one another. “Thank you.”

Flemeth snorted, while Morrigan let out a small hiss of disapproval. 

_ Who was that? _ Flora thought as she used her knee to shove open the ill-fitting wooden door. _ Did you… do you know her? _

** _Flemeth is not unknown to us. _ **

Squinting against the pale, lemon-flesh autumn sunlight, Flora puzzled over the double negative. The quiet hum of insects rose about her as she navigated her way across the marshy ground, her boots sinking several inches into the mud. Once again, Alistair was sitting beside the broken bridge; staring wordlessly into the stagnant water of the swamp. A frog perched on the opposite bank was watching him with a single dark, oily eye. Unlike at Ostagar, there was no dawn frost in the Wilds; some peculiarity of environment kept it more temperate than the valley to the north. 

Alistair startled as she sat next to him, pulling a face at the dampness of the grass. His eyes were hung with bruised purple; his broad shoulders stooped like an old man. Still, he tried his best to summon a half-smile for Flora; though there was no happiness in the sad little twist of his mouth.

“Morning. Not the most cheerful place to wake up, is it?”

“Do they argue like that often?” she replied, pointing her chin towards the ramshackle hut. 

“Ah, so you’ve met the old witch now. What do you think? And yes, they fight like cats. Sometimes, I think they fight _ as _cats.” 

He gave a humourless snort, skidding a flat grey pebble across the surface of the water. 

“I think my spirits know her,” said Flora, a little perturbed. She did not like the thought of her spirits speaking to anyone else; they were _ her _companions. “Here, share this with me. The ale is for you.”

She wedged the tankard into the damp, earthy grass and put the plate of smoked meat between them. Alistair glanced at it without interest, groping for another pebble. 

“What is that, toad?”

“No,” she replied, her mouth full. “Ain’t mushy enough to be toad. Come on: _ eat. _You have to get your strength back.”

The second pebble went skipping across the stagnant water; bouncing three times before sinking below the surface. Alistair watched it fade away, his jaw clenched so rigid that it looked almost painful.

“What’s the point?” he said at last, tiredness threaded through his voice. “The Wardens are all dead. Duncan is dead. The king is dead. Loghain is a traitor, and the Darkspawn will overrun the country in months, if not weeks.”

“You have to help me,” insisted Flora, shuffling across the damp grass until she could look him in the eye; her pale gaze clear and earnest. “You have to help me save Herring.”

_ “Herring?!” _

“Mm! You said yesterday: it might take the Darkspawn only a week and a half to reach the north,” she said, staring at him with unnerving intensity. “I mean, they’ll run into Skingle first- ”

“What in holy Andraste’s name is _ Skingle?” _

Flora’s face darkened, her brow furrowing.

“The next village over. They’re our _ mortal enemies. _They turn into seagulls and steal our fish, and they sabotage our lobster pots, and they… they worship sharks!” 

_ “Maker’s Breath!” _

“Anyway, they’re _ vicious _ in Skingle, so they’ll keep the Darkspawn horde busy for a few days - or _ weeks!! _But then they’ll be in Herring, and the winter fishing season is stressful enough for my dad without dealing with… with monsters too.” 

This was the most that he had ever heard Flora say in one go. Alistair stared at her, slightly mesmerised, wondering if he was still asleep. 

“You want me to help you… defend your village against the entirety of the Darkspawn army?”

“Yes,” said Flora firmly, thinking on what she had learnt about battles from the disaster at Ostagar.

_ Men can fail. Plans can fail. Courage can fail. _

Alistair continued to gaze at her exquisitely sculpted face; only enhanced by the plainness of her garb and the dreariness of their surroundings. She could have stepped straight out of a painting from the Orlesian school of art: which liked to portray huge-eyed, winsome little maidens in the guise of milkmaid, or beggar girl. Yet there was a steeliness in his sister-warden’s unblinking stare that would seem incongruous in any lazy pastoral scene. 

“Alright, then,” he said with a half-laugh of despair. “I’ll help you save Herring. Maker knows how we’re to do it. We haven’t got a copper coin between us, not even a horse, not even any _ food.” _

Flora gave her jumper an experimental shake, as though hoping that a small fortune might slither out from the unravelling sleeves. Instead, the beribboned scroll fell neatly into her lap, dislodged by the sudden movement. Alistair glanced at it, his handsome olive brow creasing. 

“What’s that?”

“Duncan gave it to me,” Flora replied, watching a small beetle wander across her bare toes. “The day of the battle. I don’t know what they say, I can’t read.”

She grimaced, wondering if her mention of the battle would plunge her brother-warden into another well of gloom. But Alistair was still staring at the bundle of parchment; the creases on his brow deepening to ploughed furrows. His fingers twitched, as though desperate to reach forward and close around the scroll; to touch something that his commander had laid his hands on during the last day of his life. 

“He didn’t say _ not to look at it _ ,” Flora said after a moment, handing him the roll of parchment. “He just told me to _ keep it safe.” _

There was an imperceptible tremble to Alistair’s hand as it stretched out and took the scroll, plucking at the ribbon until it twisted, sinuous, to the wet grass. The scroll was made up of several sheets of parchment bundled together; the first far newer and crisper than the others. 

_ “Flora, of Herring,” _ read Alistair, eyes scanning ahead. “ _ Officially discharged from Kinloch Hold… into the care of the Grey Wardens… witnessed by Knight-Commander Greagoir… _these are your dismissal papers from the Circle. Look, there’s your hand underneath the First Enchanter.”

Flora eyed the uneven cross that she had inked at the end of that critical night when Jowan had made his last, desperate stand; mortally wounding the Tranquil and forcing her to reveal the nature of her abilities. Duncan had been there through some happenstance of fate: he had seen her conjure a shield that could deflect blood magic with ease. He had watched her breathe life into the mouth of a dying man; her fingers working the wound closed until it was little more than a pinkish smear.

_ Your abilities are extraordinary, _ he had said to her in Irving’s office afterwards, low and urgent. _ You are not limited; you are specialised. _

_ In Rivain, we have mages who spend half their lives talking to those on the other side of the Veil. We call them spirit healers. _

_ My gifted girl. _

Flora swallowed a sudden lump of melancholy, wondering if anyone would ever name her _ gifted _again. Immediately, she felt guilty for thinking of herself so soon after her commander’s death, and resolved to light a candle for him at the first opportunity. There was a pall in the sky above the Southron Hills to the north; a dimming of the light that she would later realise was caused by a vast shroud of ash, left hanging in the air after the defence-fires burned out of control. 

_ Men can fail. Plans can fail. Courage can fail. _

She then realised that Alistair was still talking, and hastily returned her attention to him.

“ - any Templars challenge you on the road,” he was saying, peering down at First Enchanter Irving’s scrawling hand. “Proof that you’ve been discharged.”

Alistair shuffled the letter to the back, not before gazing one final time at Duncan’s bold, slanting signature at the foot of the page. As he cast his eyes down to the next set of papers, he hesitated; a small furrow of confusion forming between his brows. The parchment was far older than Flora’s Circle dismissal; so delicate that he was surprised that it had survived their ordeals intact. The ink on the yellowed pages was faded, the words barely discernible to the naked eye. At the bottom of each sheet was a signature, and these had been preserved better than the main contents.

“‘First Enchanter Haelmar’,” he read, brushing away a cricket that had leapt erroneously onto the page. “‘High King Arkud of House Undin. Nerwenye of the Brecilian Forest’.”

Flora, who had heard of none of these, gave a little shrug. A bird with a strangely elongated neck and a collar of black feathers had settled on the swamp’s opposite bank, and was eyeing up the dessicated corpse of a frog.

“The First Enchanter’s name ain’t Haelmar,” she offered after a moment, still distracted. “It’s… Orville, I think. I only met him two times.”

“It’s _ Irving,” _ Alistair corrected, holding the parchment up to the meagre light. After an initial burst of energy, the sun seemed to have settled back into a shroud of gloom; the skies were overcast and it seemed more like early evening than before noon. He scowled, angling the parchment back and forth before lowering his nose an inch away from the faded letters. 

“Is this better?” Flora reached out a hand, palm gleaming with burnished gold.

“No, it’s worse,” replied a squinting Alistair. “It’s so bright that it _ obfuscates _everything on the page.”

“Ooh!” Flora took the offending hand away, quickly. She did not know what _ obfuscates _meant, but it did not sound good. 

“There’s a date on one of them,” he continued, slowly. “I think it says - 5:20. That’s the Exalted Age… that’s during the Fourth Blight, Flora!”

“There have been four Blights?”

He shot her a semi-exasperated look, continuing to labour his way through the faded words. The letter from the dwarven king was the best preserved: the ink still shading the page. 

“‘I, High King Arkud, master of Orzammar and the dwarven subterranea, do pledge full dwarven support to the Grey Wardens in the event of a future Blight. This includes a promise _ in perpetuity _of man, money, mineral, and machine. By the Stone, it is sworn. High King Arkud of House Undin.”

Alistair trailed off into silence. The long-necked bird raised its narrow head and stared at them across the marsh; eyes gleaming. Flora felt as though she was fighting sleep in a Circle classroom while a lecturer read out formal prose from an archaic text. 

** _You should be listening, _ ** chided her general-spirit, delivering a mental pinch somewhere near her ear. ** _Stop daydreaming. This is important._ **

“What’s a machine?” she said after a moment, plucking at a loose strand of wool trailing from her sleeve. “Can you eat it?”

“Flora,” said Alistair in a quiet, almost wondering voice; so different from his usual strident cadence that she looked up in surprise. “Flora, do you know what these letters are?

“No,” said Flora, feeling as though she were stating the obvious. “Menus?”

“They’re _ treaties. _Treaties of aid. The dwarves, the Dalish and the Circle mages - they’ve all sworn to provide armies for the Grey Wardens in the event of a Blight.” 

Flora gazed at him in astonishment, her pale eyes meeting his tawny stare. Alistair was speaking more quickly now, the words tumbling over each other.

“I _ knew _ it was something important - I heard Duncan arguing with King Cailan one night, outside the command tent… they didn’t know I was there. Duncan was talking about _ using the treaties, _ and Cailan said that they didn’t _ need _ any help, and that the forces they had would be more than enough- _ Flora, _do you know what this means?”

“We have an army,” Flora breathed, her own voice distant.

“Yes! _ Three _armies.”

“That are sworn to help us.”

_ “Yes.” _

“To help us defend Herring.”

“Yes - wait, what? _ No, _ Ferelden. _ ” _

He saw her stony little face and hastily amended: “but Herring is in Ferelden, so if we can save Ferelden, we save Herring too.”

Flora realised that she was clutching handfuls of damp grass as though anchor herself to the ground. Alistair rose to his feet and began to pace back and forth, skidding slightly on the mud. The long-necked bird pecked idly at the dessicated frog, its amber eyes glinting. 

“And we’re Grey Wardens, Flora!” he reminded her, crashing a fist into his palm as though he were smashing it into the Archdemon’s danger maw. “We could take these treaties to the dwarves, to the mages - and the elves too, I suppose, though I’m not sure if the Dalish can be held to any oath - and ask for their aid.”

A sigh drifted past on the wind; as though distant Ostagar had exhaled a long and weary breath. Somewhere buried the tangled vegetation, one animal pounced on a squealing rival. The Wilds had a strange staleness that defied explanation; the trees clung to their tattered foliage year-round, the channels that wound between the pools stood stagnant, the changing seasons had little effect on the grey-brown marsh. Alistair stopped pacing, one hand resting on a rotted pillar from the broken bridge; his eyes fixed on the distant purplish hills. Somewhere within that horizon lay Ostagar, now surely teeming with Darkspawn; below it, a forested valley where hundreds of men had perished. He wondered if their bodies still rested on the pine needles, carrion for crows, or if the Darkspawn had already taken them for meat. He did not know which fate was worse. 

The young man suddenly seemed to sink in on himself like a crumpled piece of parchment; shoulders slumping and head bowed. His hand, clinched around the treaties, dropped to his side. 

“But, even so, we’re only two Grey Wardens,” he said, a hollow note ringing in the words. “Warden-_ recruits. _ Why should anybody listen to us? I don’t think even the king _ really _ believed that there was a proper Blight, he just… he just wanted an excuse to have a battle. And Loghain Mac Tir certainly didn’t believe it. That Maker-damned… traitorous… _ son of a nug! _He’ll be our enemy now, Flora - and he’s got the power of the throne behind him. If he finds out that we survived Ostagar, he’ll be after us, too. How can two junior Wardens kill an Archdemon?” 

Alistair was speaking more and more rapidly, his mind vacillating between increasingly dire circumstance. Flora could see him shriveling from the vastness of the task he had just described; clouds settling across the handsome face. 

“You know what my dad says,” she said, clambering to her feet and wondering if she had a wet patch on the seat of her breeches. 

Alistair looked down at her, his expression torn. She pried the treaties from his frozen fingers and smoothed them out over her thigh, then rolled them back into a neat scroll. 

“‘No point trying to predict next week’s storm’,” Flora continued, crouching in the damp grass in search of the ribbon. “We're not going to worry about what Loghain Mac Tir might be plotting. I _ bet _ he’s not really from Oswin, he seems the _ Skingle _ type. And we’re not going to worry about the Archdemon for now, either. Ain’t no point. As for making people listen… do you know anyone important?”

She found the ribbon curled on a patch of muddy earth. Wiping it unceremoniously on her breeches, she tied it around the bundle of treaties. Alistair watched her wordlessly for a moment, then shook his head: rousing himself from despair.

“I - I was raised in the household of Arl Eamon Guerrin,” he said, quietly. “His seat is in Redcliffe, about five days ride away. Longer on foot. He’s no supporter of Loghain, as far as I remember.” 

“Are arls important?”

“Yes.” 

“Let’s go there, then,” Flora said, tucking the scroll back down her jumper. “It’s a start.”

_ Though I don’t trust men in fancy armour to know what’s best anymore, _ she thought privately to herself, thinking about an overly exuberant king and a grimly scowling general. _ Not after Ostagar. I know who I can trust. _

_ Men can fail. Plans can fail. Courage can fail. _

_ But my spirits have never let me down. They won’t fail me. _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewrote this chapter too! I changed the following things:  
1\. wrote Flemeth as a bit more cougar-y considering her ‘hotter-than-my-daughter’ makeover in DA2  
2\. made Flo less “hoo-ra! Let’s save ferelden and be heroes” and more “we have to do this. For HERRING.”
> 
> I also wanted to show off Flora’s eccentricity a little more; considering she’s spent four years in the Circle talking more to her spirits than to actual people! Also it makes me laugh when I read her suggestion of “menus?” when Alistair shows her the treaties. Like Duncan asked her to safeguard a bunch of takeaway menus!


	21. Making Plans

The autumnal sun, still swaddled in cloud, hung low over the marshes. The sky was darkening in slow increments and the air was laced with the taste of impending rain. Now that the two junior Wardens had decided on a course of action, Alistair seemed to regain his lost inches; straightening up and squaring his shoulders. Demolishing the plate of smoked meat with one hand - he had barely eaten over the past few days - he scraped out a crude map for Flora in the mud with the point of a broken branch. 

“This is where we are now,” he said through a mouthful of meat, jabbing the toe of his boot towards a ragged _ X. _ “And Redcliffe is _ here _, at the southernmost end of Lake Calenhad.”

Flora, sitting cross-legged on the wet grass, peered at the lines dug into the earth. Although there was no scale on the improvised map, she thought that there seemed to be a rather _ long _distance between the two locations.

“Is there anywhere we can stay on the way?” she asked, absentmindedly threading two strands of grass together. “Where we could… _ get _ some food?”

Flora was not entirely sure _ how _you obtained food by use of coin: in Herring, they either fished their meals from the sea or traded salt biscuits for a neighbour’s turnip stew. In the Circle, meals had arrived with regulated punctuality on trays borne by silent Tranquil. 

Alistair thought hard, ploughing through his memories. At last, he pointed the end of the stick halfway along the meandering eked-out line. 

“There’s a town here. I think it’s called Lowery, Lothering - something like that. Duncan and I stayed at the inn there once on our way to Denerim. Nice place, quite small. Quiet. _ Discreet. _We probably shouldn’t draw too much attention to ourselves, now until we know what in the five hells Mac Tir is up to.” 

Flora nodded in solemn agreement, twisting a stray strand of hair around her finger until the tip of it turned white. Alistair looked at her for a long moment, the corner of his mouth in a rueful curl.

“Eh?” she asked, noticing his stare.

“Well, I was just thinking that it’s going to be hard not to draw attention with you,” he said, wryly. 

“Because I’m a mage?” 

“No, because you’re -well... you’re so… ” 

Alistair started to reply, before trailing off and coughing; gazing hard at the opposite bank of the marsh with the faintest spray of pink across his nose. 

Flora understood, and drew up her knees to her chin; furrowing her brow in a familiar frustration at the accident of birth that had left her with beauty, but no brains.

“I can’t break my nose; it’d just mend itself. My hair grows back overnight if it gets cut, my dad were always trying to shave me bald in Herring.” She shot him a mournful look, out of ideas. 

The young man snorted, glancing sideways at her. 

“We aren’t cutting your hair, or breaking your nose. Duncan would be furious if we even _ considered _it. He told his lieutenant that you were the… the most exquisite girl he’d ever set eyes on: I overheard them talking last week.”

They both fell into a melancholic silence; thinking on their lost commander. The billowing hum of crickets rose to fill the air, accompanied by a toad’s hoarse _ cra-craic. _It had just passed noon, and their shadows fell short on the wet grass. 

“I could put a bag over my head,” Flora offered at last, and a laugh finally broke free from Alistair’s throat. It was the first time in four days that he had laughed, and he felt the iron bands wound around his chest loosen a fraction.

“No _ bags _ are going over _ anyone’s _ head. We’ll just…put you in a big hat, or something.”

Flora, who had never owned or tried on a hat in her life, let out a squeak of barely suppressed excitement. Alistair smiled down at her, then offered a hand. 

“Come on, Flo. Let’s tell those two witches that they won’t have to host us for much longer.”

The amber-eyed stork let out a grating caw and took off with a flurry of beating wings; pushing its gangly frame into the air. 

Inside the hut, Morrigan was stirring the cooking pot with a vengeance, the ladle rattling around the iron. Her face was set in a mutinous expression; her lips pressed flat together. She did not verbally acknowledge the two young Wardens as they entered; though her nostrils flared a fraction wider.

“Are you always this welcoming to guests?” Alistair asked mildly, albeit warily. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the hospitality, but- ”

Morrigan opened her scarlet mouth, lips curling in preparation to deliver an acerbic response, when a pointed _ ahem! _arose from the corner of the room. Both Flora and Alistair turned in astonishment to see Flemeth perched on a bench, her hair even more dishevelled than usual and her eyes sparking wickedly. She rose to her feet with an effortlessness that belied the lattice of wrinkles across her face; the embodiment of expectation.

“So?” 

“So,” repeated Alistair, his eyes wide. “Are we going to talk about how you just _ appeared out of nowhere, _or not? Because I’m certain that the only person in this hut when we came in was your charming daughter.”

Flemeth let out a cackle, tapping the tips of her fingernails together in a frenzied rhythm.

“So,” she said, ignoring the question. “Have you two little Wardens decided how best to proceed, then? You cannot mope around in the Wilds for the rest of the Age.”

_ “She’s _ little,” hissed Morrigan, then cursed as the ladle slipped from her fingers and submerged itself within the stew. “He’s a _ hulking brute.” _

Flora decided to interject: arguments wasted time, and northerners had no time to waste.

“We’re going to use the Warden treaties,” she said, patting her breast to hear the reassuring rustle of parchment. “Get help from the dwarves, the mages and the elves. Then we’re going to kill the Archdemon.”

_ Before it reaches Herring, _ she thought to herself, fervently. _ It’s bound to be headed north first. Why would anyone want to go in any other direction? _

Flemeth looked down, the corner of her lips flickering. 

“I see,” she murmured, gazing thoughtfully at the cauldron. “Just the two of you are to accomplish this? This great feat?”

Flora could feel Alistair wilting at her side, his powerful frame folding in on itself as he was reminded yet again of the unfortunate odds. She elbowed him surreptitiously; firm but gentle. 

“My spirits will help,” she insisted, lifting her chin. “And then, we’ll have all the dwarves, mages- ”

“Yes, yes, and elves, I heard you the first time. And you expect to slay an Archdemon? If indeed it _ is _a true Blight and not just a swarming.”

“Yes,” replied Flora, still picturing the Archdemon as some sort of vast flying lobster after Duncan’s description of _ impenetrable scales and jagged claws. _

_ I’ll twist off it’s claws and peel off it’s shell. I’ll snap it’s legs. _

_ I’ll eat it as a tribute to Duncan! Yes! _

Her general-spirit let out an exasperated sigh just behind her right ear. Flora was so absorbed in her fantasy that she paid no further heed to the conversation, until Morrigan’s sudden shriek of dismay made her almost fall over in shock.

_ “Mother! _You can’t be serious. ‘Tis a poor joke.”

“Do I appear to be laughing?” 

The two women could have been transplanted from some dramatic Tevinter tableaux: the younger on her feet, head down as though about to charge, her face contorted with anger and incredulity; the elder perched nonchalantly on the stool, her latticed face serene. Alistair’s jaw dropped as he looked between the mother and daughter; dismay creasing his forehead. 

“We honestly don’t need a third person,” he interjected hastily, shooting Morrigan a wary look from the corner of his eye. “Flo - Flora and I will be fine by ourselves.”

“Me and you, just us two,” intoned Flora solemnly, wondering what was going on. 

_ “Really,” _replied Flemeth, a smirk in the word. “Could you and your sister-warden even find your way out of the Wilds for starters?” 

Alistair opened his mouth and then closed it again, the creases in his brow deepening. 

“No,” said Flora, still clueless. “Eh?”

“Then you need her assistance. No, boy, don’t try to argue - you are _ far _ too young to engage with me on any sort of _ meaningful _ level. Indulge an old lady and accept the assistance of my daughter on the road.”

_ “Mother,” _ whined Morrigan, suddenly more petulant child than crimson-nailed woman. “Am I worth so little to you that you’d cast me out with these two _ strangers?” _

Flemeth rose to her feet, her eyes meeting the identical gaze of her daughter. The old woman suddenly looked weary; casting off the fraudulent vigour. 

“Daughter, I order this _ because _I care. The Darkspawn have claimed half of the Wilds already. These stone walls will not protect you when the horde arrives.” 

Just as Alistair had done earlier, Morrigan’s lips parted and met again: unable to think of a persuasive counter. A thin snarl of frustration escaped her throat and she began to pace the narrow breadth of the hut like a caged panther. Flemeth eyed her daughter with an unreadable expression for a moment, then turned her gaze towards the two young Wardens.

“I suggest you spend some time gathering supplies for the road. There is food to be found in the marshes if you know where to look.” 

The witch stalked to a side cabinet, and proceeded to pluck a selection of mushrooms from a wicker basket.

“Poisonous - poisonous - poisonous - _ extremely poisonous - _poisonous - edible.”

“Why do you have so many poisonous mushrooms?” asked Alistair, in mild alarm. “And why are they all mixed up?”

Flemeth smirked and ignored the question, moving smoothly on. 

“As for berries, anything that’s not red or speckled should be safe. Oh, but avoid the ones that grow near the water unless you want to spend the next week vomiting.”

“Great,” said Alistair faintly, while Flora looked vaguely unconcerned.

As they left the hut with baskets hanging from each arm, brother-warden elbowed sister-warden.

“It’s alright for _ you _. Not all of us are lucky enough to have bodies that can mend themselves.” 

It was perhaps the first time that he had complimented her magic. Taken by surprise, Flora beamed at him; the imperious coolness of her beauty broken by the curve of her full mouth and the small white teeth. Alistair stared back at her for a long moment, then coughed and swung his gaze abruptly away.

It was decided that Alistair, being tall, would scour the bushes for berries; while the foot-shorter Flora was tasked with hunting down mushrooms. She spent the next two hours rooting on her hands and knees amidst the unbridled vegetation; digging mushrooms from the damp earth with her fingers. She had forgotten which mushrooms Flemeth had identified as edible, so surreptitiously nibbled each stalk to test the reaction of her body. If she felt a tingling in her throat as the poison was neutralised, she wedged the unwanted mushroom carefully back into the earth. 

As a weary sun settled below the horizon, the two junior Wardens surveyed the bounty of their hunt. They had collected two baskets full of mushrooms and a single basket of berries. Alistair, lacking the ability to test for toxin, had been more cautious than Flora. 

“A vegetarian diet,” observed Alistair, rather gloomily. “I never thought I’d miss the mystery meat stew that they served us back in Ostagar.”

“I’ll get us some fish,” Flora said, through a mouthful of berries. “There’s always water near a road.”

Alistair glanced at her, then let out a startled laugh. 

“Your _ teeth _ are red!” 

Back in the stone hut, which seemed all the more claustrophobic for Morrigan’s sulking presence, Flemeth cast her eye over their acquisition. She inclined her chin, then canted her head towards the overflowing chests in the corner. 

“Take what you need for the journey from my - ah - _ souvenirs _collection. I promise you that the owners won’t be returning to claim them.”

Alistair barely suppressed a shudder, while the oblivious Flora nodded. After rummaging through the contents of the chests, the two young Wardens set aside a pair of leather packs, bedrolls that only smelled faintly of mildew, a rust-laced cooking pot and a couple of blankets. While Alistair reluctantly tried on a set of Templar armour - if anyone questioned them on the road, he would claim that he was escorting an apostate back to the Circle - Flora dug out several small bowls. Morrigan refused to answer any questions about whether she would be sleeping _ near _ , or eating _ with _ them on the journey; as though still convinced that her mother would change her mind and allow her to remain. 

“Did you find a tent, Flo?”

“No,” Flora said, eyeing a suspiciously stained blanket. “Ain’t none here.” 

“We’ll have to sleep in barns, then,” Alistair replied, an involuntary grimace creasing his handsome face. “Or stables. We can’t sleep outdoors in winter. Maker, even the _ practicalities _of doing this are hard! If only Duncan could see us sleeping in a haystack.” 

“I think he’d be proud,” said his sister-warden, after a moment’s thought. “Proud of us.” 

Alistair closed his eyes tightly for a moment, the corners of his mouth tautening; as though someone had threaded a string through his face and pulled hard. When he opened his eyes again, they glittered in the light of the central fire. 

“I - I hope so.”

Late that night Alistair awoke with a start, staring up at the shifting light of flame against the wall. He had no idea what hour it was, then realised that it no longer mattered: keeping track of time was important when he had duties and routines to adhere to, when he was expected to be at a certain place at a certain moment. The need to adhere to a schedule had died with the rest of the Wardens: he had no commander’s agenda to follow, no bell would ring to mark the arrival of a new day. 

The realisation disconcerted him, and Alistair turned his head to look at the other person who had also been set adrift by the fall of Ostagar. To his alarm, the furs beside him were rumpled but empty. He felt something constrict within his lungs - a brief clench of fright - and then reason overrode reflex.

_ She’s gone to make water, _ he told himself. _ Or to fetch a drink from the well. _

_ I’ll wait a little while. _

Two minutes later, Alistair pushed back the furs and went in search of his sister-warden. The hut was - seemingly - empty, but he still took care to make as little noise as possible as he crept around the smouldering embers beneath the cooking pot. The door made a rough groan of protest as he eased it open, but nothing stirred in the shadows behind him. 

A sickle moon hung somewhere in the east of the sky. The Wilds were as pallid and colourless at night as they were during the day; except now they were cast in silver grey instead of shades of brown. The reeds sat on the edge of the marsh like a sparse black fringe. To his relief, he caught sight of her straight away; sitting hunched over on the damp grass with a golden glow illuminating the sculpted lines of her face. 

Flora looked up as he approached, focused in a frowning concentration. She was sitting in a shirt and smalls, her breeches in a crumpled heap beside her. 

“I went to make water,” she said, perturbed. “And when I took off my trousers, a _ swarm _ of nasty bugs flew up and _ bit _ me!”

Alistair realised then that she was pressing her fingers methodically against an array of red bumps scattered across her thighs. Each one took only a moment to heal, but there were a _ lot _of them. 

“Ah,” he replied, sitting heavily down in the grass next to her. “Those are from midge-flies. Irritating little buggers.”

She muttered something under her breath, continuing to prod grumpily at each itchy bite. Alistair watched her for a minute; then worried that she might interpret this as him staring at her legs. He hastily averted his gaze to the sky overhead. A constellation had just erupted from behind a vein of cloud; blazing against the pallor of the moon. Alistair recognised it as the _ Peraquialus; _known for its habit of wandering randomly across the heavens in defiance of astrologers’ attempts to chart it.

“I’d like to have a funeral for Duncan,” he said, after several quiet minutes had passed. “Not anytime soon. When - when all this is over. Maybe… maybe even build a statue for him. A memorial. I don’t know how I could afford it. But it would be nice to have somewhere that we could go to… pay our respects.”

The unspoken truth hung in the air like a shroud: there could be no true funeral, for there was no body left to burn. 

“I think that would be nice,” said his sister-warden, wistful as she healed the last of the bites. “You have good ideas.”

Him, embarrassed: “Me? No.”

“Mm.”

They both fell silent once again; the low hum of crickets swelled in the background. The sickle moon had acquired a veil of diaphanous cloud, as though it too were grieving.

“We have a story about the _Boat _back in Herring.” Flora glanced sideways at him, shy. “Do you want to hear it?”

Alistair noticed that she was still hesitant; as one is with a friend that was new enough to potentially offend. 

“Yes,” he said. “Go on.”

There was a distance writ across her face as she spoke: the five hundred miles that stretched between herself and the northern coast; or perhaps the unchartable expanse between herself and the man she had spent hours renewing. 

“When a hero dies,” Flora said, in her soft, slightly gruff northern cadence. “Their soul boards the _ Boat, _ and they sail the night sky forever. That’s it: it ain’t a _ long _ story.”

“Do you think it’s a true story?” 

“All stories are true in some ways,” she replied carefully, after a moment of thought.

“Do… do you think Duncan is up there?”

_ “Definitely,” _she said, and this time, there was no hesitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok the old version of this was much shorter so I wanted to develop it! It’s a bit of a bitty chapter but I really liked writing it. I wanted to show an Alistair who was still in mourning for his commander, and I wanted to show Flora’s naivety and immaturity when it comes to her understanding of the task ahead.


	22. The Long Road Ahead

The approach of winter meant a late dawn. An icy sliver of sun crested the horizon mid-morning; illuminating the Wilds with a sallow, unwelcoming light. Hoarfrost clung to naked branches like dusted sugar. Yet, despite its frigid appearance, the temperature was still mild and the wind had not yet gathered its strength; reluctant to exert itself beyond a petulant whisper. Flemeth’s hut, the only structure as far as the eye could see, rose from the melting mist like a stony spur of island.

While they waited for the fog to clear, Alistair checked over their packs for a final time. He had found some plate that just about fit his tall and brawny frame; it had once belonged to some Templar, judging by the etching on the breastplate. The steel was tarnished but good quality, and Alistair was relieved to be clad in armour once again. He had spent much of the past two years sheathed in metal, and was more comfortable with sword in hand than without. The unfortunate Templar’s blade was plain but sturdy; the shield rippled with dents. 

“Once we get to Redcliffe, I hope that the arl will lend us some supplies,” he said with uncertainty to a just-entering Flora; it had been a decade since he had last seen Eamon. “But this’ll serve for now.”

Flora, who had spent the past quarter-candle filling waterskins from the well outside, deposited her armful on the floor. Squatting, she began to divide them between the two packs. Morrigan had still refused to divulge how she was intending to carry her belongings. The witch had ignored them all morning, staring at the ceiling as though she planned to murder it. 

“Mm,” she mumbled, wondering which of the skins had leaked over her shirt. “I ain’t never met a _ noble _ before. The teyrn of Hiver came past Herring once but my dad took me out on the boat all morning.”

“You’ve met the king,” replied Alistair, surreptitiously transferring the bulk of her pack into his. 

“Is he a noble?”

“The _ top _ noble.” He thought for the hundredth time, _ how little she knows of the world outside her own head. _

“Ooh.” Flora absorbed this information for a moment, then decided that if Cailan was chief representative of them, she did not like nobles very much. “My dad says that all nobles are knobs. I don’t know what that means.”

Alistair snorted, leaning an elbow on a blanket to squash it into a more packable shape. 

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” he said, then bridled as the atmosphere in the hut shifted; another presence making itself known with a slithering rush of air. “I _ hate _it when she does that.”

Flemeth had appeared as though birthed from the shadows, her merigold eyes gleaming. She held out a plain length of wood, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. 

Flora let out a squeak of delight: “My staff! You fixed it. Thank you.” 

When she clambered to her feet her knee gave a twinge of protest; she put a hand on Alistair’s shoulder to steady herself.

_ I really did a bad job on my knee, didn’t I? _

** _Yes, _ ** replied her general-spirit, tersely. ** _We warned you not to rush the mending. _ **

Compassion added a soft hum of sympathy to lessen the reprimand. 

“It is not entirely as it was before,” the old witch warned as she handed over the staff. “Prolonged or extreme use will take its toll, and the charm will not last forever. When you arrive at the Circle to seek the aid of the mages, ask their most _ powerful- _ ” there was a disdainful smirk in the word, “- to renew it.”

_ It is not entirely as it was before, _ Flora thought to herself, taking the staff and hugging it to her chest. _ Just like me. _

“Thank you,” she said, remembering that southerners valued manners. 

Flemeth was not listening: her eyes had settled on her scowling daughter.

“The mists have cleared,” she said, not unkindly. “Time to be off.” 

“Mother- ”

_ “Time to be off.” _

The old witch had not been altogether truthful: remnants of fog still clung to the skeletal trees and swirled around their ankles like a shallow tide. Yet they could see their road well enough, though most of the cobbles had long since sunk into the earth. Flora and Alistair had a leather pack each on their shoulders; she had strapped her staff across the top of hers. Morrigan, most unsuitably clad for both activity and season, bore nothing except her blackthorn rod. 

“Do you want to borrow one of my jumpers?” Flora offered anxiously, eyeing the swathes of exposed tawny skin. “It’s freezing.”

Morrigan ignored her, turning instead towards her mother. Flemeth was leaning against the broken fence that ringed the hut, her eyes moving slow and thoughtful between them. 

“I wouldn’t linger in Lothering,” the old woman warned them, although neither Flora nor Alistair had informed her of their plan to stop there. “It lies in the direct path of the Darkspawn horde.”

“Right,” said the young man, lifting his pack out of an indignant Flora’s reach: she had discovered the weight disparity between them and was trying to take the cooking pot. “Flo, _ stop. _I’m twice your size, I ought to be carrying the heavier load.”

“I’m as strong as a MULE!” 

“You’re tiny!”

“_ Small but dense!!” _

While the two Warden-recruits squabbled over the cooking pot, Morrigan shot her mother a pleading stare. 

“Mother, would you really inflict these two _ children _ on me? I shall be driven mad.”

The old woman’s face twisted, her eyes gleaming and distant. Her fingers tightened on the fence and she flinched, as though some brutal truth had been delivered direct to her ear. An astonished Morrigan gazed at her and for once no acerbic remark rolled from her tongue.

“Ferelden is in mortal danger,” Flemeth said at last, so quiet that her daughter had to lean forward to hear her. “An Archdemon has risen. They have the old Warden treaties of aid, and the little girl’s beauty will make men fight all the harder.” 

At that same moment Flora succeeded in yanking the cooking pot away from Alistair, promptly hitting herself in the face with it. Morrigan let out a soft but audible moan of despair.

“Fine. _ Fine. _I hope you enjoy your peace and solitude, Mother!”

The old witch’s sharpness returned in an instant.

“It is probable that I will be _ surrounded and consumed _by the Darkspawn horde before the year is out, daughter! So bite your tongue.”

“You’re more like to consume _ them,” _muttered Morrigan, but she appeared somewhat chastened. “Mother, I- ”

“Go, go!” retorted Flemeth, already turning her back. “I can feel the Archdemon breathing down my neck already.” 

Her daughter seemed on the cusp of saying something, but then pressed her lips tight enough to whiten them beneath the crimson stain. She lifted her blackthorn rod from her shoulder and cast a contemptuous look at her two new companions.

“I suppose you want me to guide you out of the Wilds?”

“Yes please,” said Flora, so absorbed with triumph over the cooking pot that she failed to notice Alistair sneaking the rest of the bowls and filled waterskins from her bag. 

Morrigan nodded, stalked several steps forward, and then vanished in a whirl of arcane wind and shadowy feathers. A crow emerged from the gleaming cloud, winging its way skyward. Flemeth cast a final look at her daughter - who was now eyeing them resentfully from the balding treetop - then ducked inside the hut without another word. 

A groan eased itself from Alistair’s throat; he closed his eyes for a moment.

“For the love of Andraste. The witch is a _ shapeshifter,” _he said, resignedly. “I had my suspicions. That’s it, no more privacy. She could be a gnat on your arm, or a mouse in the corner, or- ”

“CAN YOU TURN,” bellowed an uncharacteristically excited Flora, running after the startled bird. “INTO A FISH??”

* * *

Many Ages ago, humans had made a valiant effort to tame the Korcari Wilds. They drained entire marshes to build houses, and cleared acres of poisonous foliage to plant their own crops. After only a few years, they abandoned their settlement: stone walls collapsed as swampy ground subsided, the people were made sick by foul water and tainted grain. They left to seek better prospects elsewhere, leaving a convoluted tangle of roads and bridges in their wake. Much of this network had been reclaimed by the Wilds: cobblestones sunk into the earth, bridges collapsed as water eroded their foundations. Only the raw veins of the roadways remained visible, crossed only by darting animals and, sometimes, a drifting shade. 

Morrigan wheeled in the skies overhead; an ill-tempered compass that frequently abandoned directional duties to go on the hunt. Still, both young Wardens made good time, heading north-east along the remains of a road. The occasional obstacle presented itself - a fallen tree, or a flooded junction - but were easily navigated. Neither one spoke. Alistair had fallen into a brooding silence that was part-grief and part-worry; Flora, as a northerner, was naturally taciturn. 

They ate a sparse lunch of mushrooms and berries near the ruins of a decayed Tevinter temple. Morrigan did not join them; indeed, she had not yet bothered to leave her avian form. Then, as a fine, misting drizzle blew across the marshes, they resumed their journey. The ground became slippery underfoot as earth turned to mud. Alistair was weighed down by armour and a heavier pack; he trudged along with the grim determination of a shire horse. Flora fell over three times. 

The edge of the Wilds was pronounced by a standing stone, the ancient markings around its base eroded by the passage of Ages. It was not the only indicator that they were nearing the border: the marshes had gradually dried out, the land easing itself into rolling slopes. The unfriendly tangles of decaying scrub were replaced with verdant bushes that sprouted pale green leaves the colour of Orlesian soap. 

They could have pressed further into the grain-fields and pastures of the bannorn, but the sun was resting atop the Frostbacks and night came early during a Fereldan winter. Alistair had spotted a shepherd’s hut a few dozen yards from the road; the two Wardens were picking their way across the field’s naked stubble when Morrigan came wheeling ill-temperedly from the sky. The body of a woman unravelled itself from the hollow bones and grey, feathered skin; her eyes equally fierce.

“Why have we stopped?” she demanded, watching Flora wriggle out of her pack. “There is still an hour of daylight remaining.”

“Yes, well, I don’t fancy hunting for firewood and cooking dinner in the dark,” Alistair replied tersely, easing his own pack to the hardened mud. “And it’s the first roof we’ve seen all afternoon, so we’re sleeping under it.”

Flora nodded in relief: her knee was throbbing after an afternoon spent treading on it. 

“Speak for yourself,” retorted Morrigan, folding her slender arms. Despite the scant cover of her garb and the sly bite of the breeze, she showed no sign of being cold. “Wait, why is it necessary to ‘_ hunt for firewood’? _You have a mage, ‘tis sufficient to find a single branch and have her summon a blaze.”

She canted her head towards said mage, who was now rooting in Alistair’s pack for the cooking pot. 

“I ain’t that kind of mage,” Flora replied, pulling out blankets. “I can’t make fire.” 

Morrigan reacted as though Flora had informed her that she did not breathe air. 

“What? But it is the most _ basic _of spells. Any child gifted with magic can accomplish it.”

“Not me. I can only do two things.”

_ “Two spells?! _Surely, ‘tis a joke!”

Flora gave a shrug. “I don’t know any jokes,” she said, apologetically. “Being funny is not one of the things I can do. Ask Alistair if you want a joke.”

“But- but… it’s _ unheard _ of. Such breathtaking incompetence! Such _ limitation.” _

Alistair realised that he was watching a conversation in which Flora knew her responses by heart; she must have enacted it dozens of times during her stay at the Circle. Thinking of the Circle brought back memories of the first time that he and Duncan had set eyes on Flora; the maleficar’s magic dissolving into nothing against her shimmering sheath. He had heard Duncan’s breath catch in his throat; the Rivaini had tilted like a magnet towards the girl. 

_ I have not seen the like of her, Alistair, not since I was a youth. Isn’t she remarkable? _

“Flora isn’t limited,” Alistair heard himself saying, the words emerging without prior thought. “She’s _ specialised _.”

He could feel Flora’s clear, grave eyes resting on him, her face wondering; he swallowed and kept his eyes on the incredulous witch. Morrigan let out a squawk of disbelief, then shrunk down in a rapid flurry of feathers; winging her way skyward once again. 

“Right,” said Alistair, watching the crow vanish into the fading light. “Well, good riddance. Hopefully she never comes back.” 

Together, they managed to scavenge enough branches from the hedgerow to build a fire; which Alistair lit competently with the aid of a firesteel from Flemeth’s ‘souvenir’ collection. As the moons rose, one high and white, the other small and blue, their fire blazed out a pinprick of light against the fallow field. There was still no sign of Morrigan, so, huddled in blankets, they ate their dinner - strips of smoked meat and cooked mushrooms - while their marsh-sodden footwear dried in front of the flame. 

Flora nudged at one of her wet socks with a twig, trying to get it as close to the heat as possible without roasting it. Alistair watched the reflection of flame writhe across his sister-warden’s face, adding warmth to the high cheekbone and the line of her jaw. 

“It just occurred to me, Flo,” he said, with deliberate casualness. “That I don’t know much about you. And I think that ought to change. Seeing as- ”

_ Seeing as there’s only us left, now. _

_ What was it you said? Me and you, just us two. _

He flinched; the grief was still a raw wound. Flora leaned back on her elbows, the blanket caught in a tangle around her knees. Her hair was making a valiant attempt to escape the plump length of braid, which fell to the earth and coiled there loosely like a snake.

“There isn’t much about me to know,” she replied to the sky. “I’m not an interesting person.” 

“I’m sure that’s not true,” he replied, kindly. 

Flora shot him a solemn look. “It _ is.” _

Alistair shrugged, prodding the woven base of branches with a twig. White chunks of ash crumbled; a fresh flurry of sparks rushed skywards with a hiss. They had not seen Morrigan since she had departed in disgust a candle-length earlier. He returned his gaze to his sister-warden. She was still sprawled on her back, rolling her staff back and forth across the earth with her naked toes. Her exquisitely crafted face bore a rather gormless expression; the contrast between the fair and the foolish was strangely comedic.

“Tell me anyway. How long were you in the Circle for?” 

“Four years,” Flora replied after a moment of thought. “I got taken there when I were fifteen. The _ worst _ day of my life. _ Don’t _ ask me about it! The day I was… I was _ stolen. _From my beloved HERRING.”

Alistair had to bite down on a laugh: it was not that he found her removal to a Circle _ funny; _but he had never heard her sound so melodramatic before. She scowled up at him from her prostrate position, perhaps detecting a hint of a smile. He hastily fixed his expression into one of concerned interest.

“Tell me about your family. Are your parents still alive?”

Flora brightened, the scowl melting away like sparks from the fire. 

“My dad - Pel - he owns the second biggest boat in Herring. He’s the best fisherman on the north coast. There ain’t _ nothing _that he can’t catch.” 

His sister-warden hesitated; Alistair saw that she was chewing on a thumbnail. 

“My mam’s name is Gerda,” she said, more quietly. “She… she makes good fish stew.”

It was impossible not to notice the marked contrast in her enthusiasm. Alistair bit back a question; instead, he leaned forward and turned her leather boot so that the damp interior also received the heat of the fire. The temperature had dropped during the course of their dinner, and the shepherd’s hut - little more than a heap of piled stone - looked most unwelcoming. To delay the inevitable, he turned his attention back to Flora.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“None that are living,” she said, then - seeing that he was about to offer condolences - quickly continued. “My parents had a son, but he died a long time before I was born. I never knew him. If I’d been alive, I would’ve saved him.”

It was not a boast, but a simple statement of fact. A branch collapsed into the heart of the fire with a loud crack that made them both jump. The darkness seemed suddenly very near around them; the shadow lurked at the edge of the firelight and crept ever closer. Loghain Mac Tir, who had given a command that had doomed the king, Duncan, and perhaps all of Ferelden, could have been standing close enough to hear them breathe. There were rumours that he had turned to religion after the death of his wife, and that thirteen holy charms rattled like loose teeth beneath his armour. 

“I don’t have anything else to say about me,” said an apologetic Flora, breaking the silence. “I told you: I’m not interesting. All I am is a mender from Herring.”

Alistair rose to his feet, grimacing at the stiffness of his limbs. The fire had almost burnt out; some gleaming embers still clung to life amidst the ashes. He stifled them with the heel of his boot, reasoning that the farmer would not be pleased if his fallow field was set alight. 

“What about you?” Flora’s face was so pale that it was bluish in the moonlight; her eyelashes stood out like ink-strokes against the skin. “Do you have any family?”

“Oh, no,” he said, blithely. “I was raised by a pack of wild Mabari.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiver is what the peasant residents of the teyrnir call Highever! 
> 
> Knob is UK slang for dickhead lol, and gormless is one of my favourite words ever, I don’t know if it’s used outside the uk... it basically means mindless/blank... like a cow chewing cud in a field haha
> 
> This is a new chapter, based on the fact that originally I had them travelling from Flemeth’s hut to Lothering in half a day. Now, looking at map estimates for Ferelden, that distance is about 50 miles. So they went fifty miles in about six hours! So essentially they ran the whole way there XD ooops!


	23. On The Road To Lothering

So passed their first night on the road: a night so still that it seemed Ferelden was holding its breath around them. The surroundings fields had been left fallow for autumn so no lowing of cattle disturbed the serene chill of the air. There were no other fires visible save for their own. The shepherd’s hut was the only man-made structure in sight; save for the watchful rise of the standing stone to the south; and that had been built by men long dead. 

Alistair had not replicated the armour-wall that he had built between them in their quarters at Ostagar; instead, the two young Wardens slept on opposite sides of the hut, hunching around their packs while swaddled in blankets. At first a restless Alistair had not been able to sleep: his mind preoccupied with the vastness of their charge, and the dangers that surely faced them during its undertaking. He stared upwards, unseeing, envisioning hordes of Darkspawn swarming Denerim’s walls, a dagger emerging from the dark engraved with the dragon of Mac Tir, then - as always - Duncan impaled on an ogre’s rusted scimitar, Duncan torn limb from limb by feral, half-formed creatures, Duncan falling beneath a hail of tainted arrows. Alistair’s panic grew until it seemed to take on physical mass, pressing at the walls of the hut as though about to burst through. 

“They ain’t helpful, you know.” 

Flora’s voice slithered out of the dark; soft and full of the north’s misty cadence. Alistair turned over, clutching the blankets with sweaty palms. His sister-warden’s face stood out in the gloom; lit by the waxy glow of candlelight. She was lying on her belly, her head turned sideways on her folded arms. Her eyes were on him, the clear irises stained gold by the hidden candle.

It took him a moment to summon a response.

“Wha - what?”

She lifted her face from her elbows and looked at him, solemnly.

_ “Night thoughts.” _

“Night thoughts?”

“You know. The things you think about at night. Everything seems worse when it’s dark.” 

Alistair was silent, wondering whether to tell her the terrible fantasies that had plagued him for the past week. He thought:  _ I barely know her, she’s a mage, she’s a year less than me but seems younger. She talks to things that live in her head. _

Then he heard himself speaking, the words pouring out like a libation.

“I keep seeing Duncan,” he said, in a rush. “Duncan,  _ dead _ . I can’t stop thinking about how he died, and about how they must have  _ taken  _ him - taken him down to the Deep Roads. What would they do with the body of a Warden-Commander?”

Flora listened without interruption, letting him spill the torment from his mind and out through his mouth. Only once he had fallen silent did she speak; soft and thoughtful.

“The sea don’t give back those it takes either,” she said, fingers pleating the hem of her blanket. “Hardly ever. It’s hard, but then you remember that the body… it’s just a shell. Things leave their shells behind when they move on. A shell is an empty thing.”

Alistair looked at her and she gazed back with the unblinking focus of someone never taught not to stare. 

“Is that what you think?” he said at last, very quietly. 

“It’s what I  _ know _ ,” Flora breathed, without a shade of doubt. “The Darkspawn don’t have  _ him _ . He’s beyond where they can hurt him. He’s moved on.”

She thought:  _ like a crab seeking a new home. Duncan’s shell was worn out, and even my magic wouldn’t have kept it whole for much longer.  _

He thought:  _ maybe she doesn’t know her letters, or the current year, or who the queen is; but there are other things she knows. Who understands the capricious nature of death better than the mender? I believe her.  _

The sudden relief took him by surprise; the tension draining from his jaw and across the broad span of his shoulders. Somewhere overhead, an owl gave a sudden shriek and plunged into the bristling stubble of the field. His sister-warden flinched against her bedroll, still unused to the diversity of life beyond Herring and the Circle. Alistair reached an arm over the leather pack and patted her, reassuring but slightly awkward, on the head.

_ Like a Mabari,  _ he thought, cringing internally.  _ Why didn’t I go for the shoulder? That would have been much more normal. _

Flora beamed at him, though the smile swiftly turned into a yawn. The candle flame twisted in writhing patterns across her face; as though the light was imbued in her skin.

“No more night thinking,” she whispered in stern instruction, fiddling with a strand of hair beside her ears “It ain’t helpful. Think about what you’d like to dream about, instead. I want to dream that I’m half-girl, half-fish.”

“Like a mermaid,” Alistair said, adjusting bedroll beneath him. He was far too long and broad about the shoulder to fit onto the narrow bundle: either his feet or his head could rest comfortably, but not both. “An old woman told me a story about them once, back when I lived in Redcliffe. She said that they sit on rocks and spend all day combing their hair. Oh, and they  _ lure sailors to their deaths  _ with their beautiful singing.” 

Flora shot him a startled, slightly perplexed look. 

“Not like  _ that.  _ I dream that I’m the other way round.”

He laughed out loud; the sound breaking the night’s unnatural stillness. “What, your  _ top _ half as a fish?!”

“Yes _ ,”  _ she replied with a frown, as though it were obvious. “What would you rather have at the bottom of the sea: a  _ ‘beautiful singing voice’, _ or ACTUAL GILLS? _ ” _

He grinned at her and after a moment she smiled sleepily back, pillowing her candlelit cheek against her hand.

“Goodnight, Alistair. No more night-thoughts.” 

“‘Night, Flo.”

Alistair did as he was told: shoving any doom-laden fantasies from his mind as though they were tangible. Just as he was falling asleep, he remembered - with a start - that they had brought no candles with them. 

Morrigan reappeared at dawn as they fried mushrooms in a skillet over the fire. She made no apology nor gave any explanation for her abrupt disappearance, although she did spare the time to mock their grubby dishevelment. Flora offered her some mushrooms; but was secretly pleased when the witch declined with a sneer:  _ more for her!  _

“The skies are clear,” Morrigan pointed out, canting her chin towards the cloudless heavens. “The wind is dormant, the frost melted. Why are we not on our way? I cannot stand the waiting. You heard my mother:  _ the Darkspawn horde are coming.  _ The more we dally, the closer they get!” 

Alistair looked closely at her, forking up a strip of smoked meat.

“Are you  _ scared _ of the Darkspawn?” he asked, through a full mouth. “I’m surprised you’d admit to any weakness in front of  _ us.” _

“Only a fool would not be scared of the Darkspawn,” retorted Morrigan, promptly extinguishing the fire with a vigorous spout of water from the end of her blackthorn staff. “Ah, look, I’ve done your sister-warden a favour and given her a much needed wash.”

Alistair looked at Flora, who now sat in a small puddle of mud; dripping and open-mouthed. 

“Was that  _ absolutely necessary?”  _ he demanded, clambering to his feet and heading towards his pack. “It’s practically winter. She’ll get triple frostcough!”

“Thank you,” said Flora earnestly, through chattering teeth. “For the b-b-bath. It reminds me of when my mam used to throw me in rockpools to g-g-get clean, back in H-Herring. It’s how I learnt to swim.”

“Spare me the reminiscing,” hissed Morrigan, her features blurring even as she spoke. “For I care not. I shall expect you on the road in a quarter-candle.” 

Alistair, retrieving a blanket, decided that Herring might possibly be one of the most depressing places in Ferelden, second only to the Deep Roads. He could not understand why his sister-warden was so enamoured with it (he certainly did not feel the same way about Redcliffe). Nor could he understand how someone like Flora could have originated from such a sour little hamlet. He recalled what Duncan had said to him on the first night that they had spent away from the Circle. 

_ Alistair, do you have any tricks for retrieving lost memories?  _

_ Tricks? he had said, not understanding. I know how to teach a Mabari to fetch. I don’t know about retrieving memories. _

_ Duncan had fallen silent for several minutes, his eyes trained hawklike on the sleeping girl.  _

_ I cannot remember, he said at last, with a growl of frustration. There’s something about her face that won’t leave me in peace. The way she speaks… it’s misleading. _

_ It is a very pretty face, Alistair replied, then added hastily, if you’re into the intimidatingly unapproachable. Me, I prefer a plump-cheeked and jolly face on a woman. Friendly brown eyes. Sturdily built. And with nice, big… feet.  _

It took them less than a quarter candle to pack up their belongings. By the time that the sun had crested the horizon, they were heading north. The going was far easier now that they had left the Wilds; their route followed an unadorned dirt road wide enough for two carts to pass. From the deep parallel grooves that ran its length, it must have once seen a lot of traffic. Now, there was not a single traveller as far as the eye could see. The party made good time, crossing through farmland that had been left fallow during the winter. Each field bore stubble of a slightly different shade to indicate which crop it had once nourished. 

They stopped for lunch on the bank of a narrow stream; which ran like a length of silvery ribbon between the patchwork fields. Although Morrigan again refused to eat with them, she did deign to assist with the ignition of the fire. Flora, eager to prove that she could be useful in ways  _ other  _ than failing to light fires, made a fishing line from a bent nail and a skein of wool. As she had hoped, her glowing fingertip proved effective bait; before long, she came up the bank with a greenish-grey trout in dripping arms. They had no fillet knife, but - to Alistair’s mild alarm - the witch produced a slender blade from the inside of her leather skirts. Flora gutted and deboned the fish, secretly delighted that four years in Kinloch had not robbed her of this much-valued skill. 

With bellies full of smoked trout and mushrooms, they set out once again on the dirt trail, Morrigan wheeling in the sky overhead. Although they no longer needed her direction - the occasional lopsided signpost confirmed that Lothering lay ahead - she clearly had no desire to walk with them. In the first stroke of good luck since Ostagar, the winter was proving slow to arrive. Autumn had dug its rustling copper claws into Ferelden and was holding fast; the temperature was mild and the rain more drizzle than downpour. Alistair mentioned that, a few years prior, there had been snow at the end of Harvestmere. Flora, who had lived on the coast and then under a Circle roof, had never seen snow.

Midway through the afternoon, Alistair pointed out a structure cresting the nearby hills. Like the half-buried bones of a vast, prehistoric creature the elevated roadway jutted upwards from the landscape; built in the speckled white granite that was characteristic of Tevinter engineering. The Kingsway was an ancient network of raised roads constructed when Ferelden was a vassal state of the old empire; its purpose to facilitate trade and communications. A half-dozen Ages later, much of the decaying road system had collapsed into ruin, or been looted for stone by locals. Some sections, though, remained surprisingly intact - and the Lothering Road was one of them. 

If they had so desired, they could have reached the Kingsway and pressed on to reach Lothering that night. Instead, to Morrigan’s disgust, both young Wardens chose to end the day’s journey a mile away from the old highroad. As they set up camp in a derelict cottage (three out of four walls standing) she told them bluntly that they  _ deserved  _ to be overtaken and promptly consumed by the horde. 

“Charming,” observed Alistair, watching the witch flap off in a feathered huff. “She must have inherited her manners from her mother.”

Flora laid out the bedrolls and blankets in the driest part of the old cottage, while her brother-warden coaxed a fire to life outside. Once the flames were a healthy size, they fried the last remaining mushrooms and leftover trout in a single, dented pan.

“It won’t take us long tomorrow morning,” he said, moving to one side as the wind blew a playful billow of smoke in his direction. “Once we get onto the Kingsway, it’ll be a straight arrowshot to Lothering.”

“Straight as the crow flies,” intoned Flora, setting aside a portion of their dinner for Morrigan. “Good.”

Alistair hesitated, glancing at his sister-warden from the tail of his eye. She had just finished assembling the plate, and was now stifling a grimace. He saw her reach forward as if to touch her knee; her fingers hovered anxiously above the swollen limb for a moment and then retreated. 

“Flo?”

Flora looked up, her face falling back into its usual cool neutrality. It had taken Alistair a long time to realise that his sister-warden’s haughty stare and the imperius turn of her mouth was just the natural manner in which her features settled; rather than any indication of internal state. 

“Mm?” She had the northerner’s habit of issuing vocables instead of vocabulary: why summon the effort of a word, when a grunt would do? 

“We ought to… to try and be discreet when we get to Lothering,” he said, watching the firelight play on the artful contours of her face. “And avoid attention, as much as we can.”

_ I never got her that big hat,  _ he thought grimly to himself. 

“You mean, pretend that I’m not a mage? Like we said earlier?” 

They had discussed this on the road: since Flora’s staff was the only indication of her nature, it could be hidden somewhere outside the village.

“Not just that.”

She looked at him, a faint crease etching itself across the smooth span of her forehead. 

“We don’t know what Loghain Mac Tir- ” Alistair could barely utter the name without his lip curling,” - what Mac Tir has said. On a fast horse, he could be halfway to Denerim by now. And who knows what sort of messages he’s been flying around the country? He’ll have needed to come up with some deception to justify his betrayal.” 

“ _ Lie- _ ghain.” Flora’s mouth curved downwards in disapproval. “So we shouldn’t tell anyone in Lothering that we’re Wardens?” 

“‘Lie-ghain’.” He snorted,despite the circumstances. “Yes, I think that’s probably for the best. Do you… do you agree? I mean, I might have it totally wrong - probably do, actually. If we told people that we were Wardens, they might feel obligated to help us. The Wardens are respected in Ferelden, to a degree. Maybe we  _ should  _ say something.”

Alistair’s confidence was visibly unravelling. It was  _ Duncan  _ that made decisions while he, Alistair, obeyed; before that, he had been at the command of his Templar instructors; before that, the will of Arl Guerrin had ruled his life. He was not used to making decisions for himself, especially not ones of significance. 

Flora smiled at him and it was as though she had reached out and placed a finger on his lips.

“You were right first of all,” she breathed, as the smoke curled tendrils of ash heavenward before them. “It’s best to be careful. The rules of everything are broken.” 

In Flora’s mind, the natural order of the world had been unsettled with the slaughter in the valley below Ostagar: when one of the important men in gleaming armour had abandoned duty, discarded strategy and condemned the others to their death. She could still remember the three standing around the map table, counters spread before them on the parchment.

_ The king, the general, the Warden-Commander.  _

_ They seemed so certain, so confident in their victory. And look what happened. Duncan is dead, King Colin is dead. Alistair is right; nothing is sure anymore. _

Somewhere within the hollow curve of her skull, her spirits gave a soft ripple of approval.

** _Though his name was Cailan, and not Colin. _ **

_ Oh. Well, he called me Fiona. And Freya.  _

“I  _ am  _ right,” said Alistair, seeming startled by his own assurance. “Huh. Well, this is an unusual feeling.”

Flora scrambled to her feet, biting back a wince of pain as her knee gave protest at the sudden movement. Scooping up the spare plate, she angled her face up into the clinging chill of evening. 

_ “Morrigaaaaaan.  _ MORRIGAN,” she bellowed; suddenly a northern fishwife. “I saved you some DINNER. Come and eat with us!” 

Alistair groaned, leaning back on his elbows and eyeing her balefully.

“Do we  _ have _ to invite the witch? Her face gives me indigestion.”

Flora shot him a reproving look, still thrusting the plate skywards. She made an odd figure, clad in the ill-fitting garb of an apprentice boy with her hair knotted in a lopsided bundle on top of her head; silhouetted against the field as the daylight died around them. The knobbled spine of the Kingsway reared up behind her, rising and falling with the landscape. 

“She needs to eat, too. She’s part of our shoal.” 

“Our  _ shoal?  _ Don’t you mean our  _ party?  _ Or are you still fantasising about being a fishwoman?”

She glanced at him slyly from beneath her eyelashes.  _ “Always.” _

Her bellowing had worked: there came a flurry of feathers and Morrigan burst out from a whirl of arcane wind, her face contorted in annoyance. Despite her assumption of human form, a wild aura hung around the woman; feral and musky, as though old furs were draped about her shoulders. The tiny bones in her hair quivered as she shook her head like a displeased bear. 

“Howl my name even  _ louder _ , why don’t you?! You’ll bring every foe in the field down upon us.”

“Do you have a lot of enemies, then? Somehow... I’m  _ not _ surprised,” Alistair observed acerbically. Flora held out the dented plate before her, like an offering.

The witch looked at it as though it were a rat crushed beneath the wheel of a cart. Flora waggled the plate invitingly and several mushrooms fell onto her foot. 

“Eat something,” she wheedled, employing her huge and luminous eyes to their best effect. “You don’t have to talk to us. Or even look at us. You can sit with your back to us… right…  _ here.” _

The witch placed her finger on the edge of the plate and pressed down with deliberate slowness. Flora watched the rest of the mushrooms and a large chunk of salmon tumble onto the damp grass. Morrigan cackled, her eyes flashing like a fox in the gloom. It was the first time that she had shown any sign of good humour since she had left the Wilds. Flora gazed at the woman for a moment, her brow furrowing.

“Are you mean because you and your mam were always mean to each other?” she asked, curious. “Because I ain’t going to be mean to you. I want to be friends.”

_ “Friends,”  _ spat Morrigan, her lips drawn back over her teeth. “I have no friends. I have no need for them.”

Her face twisted abruptly and she turned away, stalking into the gloom. With each stride, her bones shrunk and twisted; feathers sprouted from greying skin; the features that made her human melted away and were reforged, hollow and avian. With an angry beating of wings, the crow thrust itself upwards, cresting the cottage’s derelict roof. 

“I’ll  _ never  _ get used to that,” predicted Alistair, gloomily. “It’s just so… unnatural.”

Unperturbed, Flora squatted to retrieve the fallen food from the grass; giving each mushroom a perfunctory rub against her jumper before replacing it on the plate. 

“Do we  _ have  _ to be friends with her?” her brother-warden complained from somewhere above her head; he had come to assist in the retrieval of the food. “Can’t me and you just be friends with each other, and be….  _ very distant acquaintances _ with the hedge-witch?”

Flora, still crouched like a frog on all fours, tilted her face up to his and smiled. The breath snagged in Alistair’s throat as though caught on a hook; he had to consciously draw in the next lungful of air. 

_ I thought I had grown used to the way she looks,  _ he thought in bemusement.  _ It’s just a face with eyes. A mouth. Nothing unusual.  _

_ But, what eyes. What a mouth. Maker, help me.  _

“Are we friends, then?” Flora asked, hopeful and yet tentative. “Me and you?”

She remembered the prickly month they had shared at Ostagar: the breastplate between their bedrolls, his labelling of her magic as ‘weird’. He had been wary of her even as he escorted her about the fortress; mistrusted her while simultaneously defending her from the slights of others. 

Alistair, jolted from his reverie, blinked. He herded his racing thoughts into some sort of order, taking a gulp of air to slow the urgent beat of his heart.

“Yes,” he said, smiling back down at her. “Yes, of course we are, Flo. We’re friends.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Lol Flora has major resting bitch face! I love the contrast between her haughty, fuck-off looks and her temperament.
> 
> A vocable is a sound used to express something that isn’t a proper word, like a grunt, or “huh”, “ha!”, “eh” etc! Flora, being a northerner, uses them a lot :P
> 
> This chapter is new too, I like to character/relationship build during travelling chapters, and since I had them sprinting to Lothering at a fast run in the original story, I thought I’d stretch the journey out a bit this time :P firstly, I wanted to develop Flora and Alistair’s friendship! Since in the original, they become friends/comfortable with each other in a pretty rushed way at Ostagar (like within days). In the redux (lol trust me to pick the most pretentious sounding word for a new ‘editon!’) Alistair is standoffish and mistrustful of Flora the entire duration of their time at Ostagar. I wanted to grow their friendship a bit more organically this time! 
> 
> Spot all the marine/Herring references associated with Flo this chapter! I think there are about seven, haha
> 
> I also want to develop Alistair’s character arc more in this version - he’s not so much a support character for Flora; but more a dual protagonist alongside her. He undergoes a pretty dramatic arc during the course of the game and I wanted the process of him maturing to start earlier. Likewise, since this is a loooooong story, there’s lots of time to develop Morrigan too (so I made her extra mean to start off with hahaha)
> 
> Thank you so much for the reviews!!!


	24. Bandits On The Highway

The Maker had bestowed another mild and clear morning on His Wardens; a day so fine that it seemed almost impossible that a ravenous horde could be devouring the countryside somewhere to the south. The air had the sharp, sour crispness of a citrus fruit; the sky so cloudless that the light loaned the land an extra clarity. It was such a fair morning that it almost compensated for the sudden drop in temperature overnight. The hoarfrost clung stubbornly to the ground; save for where the remnants of the campfire still smouldered.

They broke their fast with the last of the fresh berries; Alistair reminiscing about the meat stew that had been served to them at Ostagar. 

“I can’t believe I used to complain about getting _ hot food  _ for breakfast,” he said wistfully, shoving the tin plate back into his pack. “I wouldn’t even care what unfortunate creature it was made from now. I’d eat the whole cauldron.”

“You said it was made from the King’s lame horses,” Flora reminded him, licking her fingers to remove the crimson juice. “The stew.”

“Ha,” said Alistair, driving his boot into the gleaming remnants of the fire. “Did I?”

“Mm.” She sat down on the grass, frost crackling, and began to pull on her socks. “Lame horses, and a Mabari that bit his hand. Weren’t you raised by Mabari? Didn’t you feel bad eating one?”

Flora was looking at him with her clear grey stare: transparent and yet yielding nothing. He could not tell if she believed everything that he told her, or some parts of it, or; perhaps she believed none of it and was only humouring him. 

“Well,” he replied and then laughed, glancing around the ruins of stone walls to see if they’d left anything behind. “Perhaps I wasn’t being entirely honest. I’ll tell you more on the road.”

There was still no sign of Morrigan, but there were several birds circling against the whitish-blue sky above them; little more than moving inks flecks to the naked eye. Once Flora had healed Alistair’s blisters - an activity that he would have found oddly intimate if she hadn’t babbled on about the difference between northern trout and southern trout for the duration of it - they were off once again. The Kingsway grew in gradual increments as they neared, rearing up from the ground like the spine of some vast and long-buried creature.

“Remember I mentioned Eamon Guerrin the other day?” Alistair said, once they were about a half-mile from the meandering structure. “The Arl of Redcliffe?” 

“Mm,” replied Flora, skirting a pothole. “I remember. We’re going to see him after we get supplies in Lothering. This road looks like it’s been trampled by sea giants.”

“Yes, with the coin that we don’t have.” Alistair grimaced, then thrust the thought from his mind. “Anyway, that’s actually where I grew up. My mother was a servant in the arl’s castle, but she died just after I was born. My father didn’t stick around for the birth - well, he didn’t stick around at all ”

He stated this in the dispassionate tone of a story told many times before; his eyes fixed on the uneven ground ahead. Flora glanced sideways at him, adjusting her staff from one shoulder to the other.

** _Look at the corner of his mouth. Observe how it pulls taut when he mentions it._ **

_ You’re so nosy. His parents ain’t got nothing to do with anything!  _

** _Hm. _ **

Flora stopped paying attention to her spirits when she realised that she could not simultaneously listen to them, to Alistair,  _ and  _ avoid the potholes on the road. 

“Anyway, the arl was kind to me - kinder than he had any need to be. He found me a wet nurse, gave me a bed and then, when I was old enough, a job in his stables.” 

Alistair still had his gaze fastened to the Kingsway ahead, oddly reluctant to look at Flora. Flora peered at the back of his head, the blond hair bronzed by the sun so that it shone like an Alamarri shield. Even the ill-fitting armour could not hide the raw power of the muscle beneath dented metal; yet the tall and broad frame was kept in careful coordination. Alistair had the control of movement of one who had always been too large and too strong for his years; he had learnt, out of necessity, to harness his strength.

“The horses must have liked you,” she said to the broad span of his shoulders, skirting around a frost-laced puddle. “You’re a very calming person to be around.” 

He looked back at her, then laughed. 

“Well, they  _ did _ like me, as it happens. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you. I wasn’t  _ really _ raised by Mabari. But…. I’ve no family to speak of, either.”

_ And now he’s lost Duncan, too,  _ Flora thought to herself, feeling a surge of sympathy deep in her belly. 

“You do: you have a sister-warden,” she said, doubling her pace to catch up with him. “Me. OOOOOH.”

Her exclamation was drawn from her by the sudden nearness of the Kingsway, which reared up before them in all its decrepit glory. The foundations were stained green with climbing moss, but the higher parts - the road itself, the skeletal towers, the herringbone archways spaced in intervals - still gleamed white and brilliant; the stone hewn from the finest Marcher quarries and transported across the Waking Sea. 

“It’s so big,” Flora breathed, her head turning to follow the meandering rise and fall of the Tevinter construction. “How long is it?”

It took a moment for Alistair to register her question; he was still jolted from her nonchalant declaration that  _ she was his family now _ . With effort he summoned the living Ferelden to his mind; planting the Brecilian Forest to the east and raising the Frostbacks to the West, pouring out Lake Calenhad to the south of the Circle’s lonely spire. The highways unravelled across his mental map like wool, connecting east to west and north to south in a ragged, meandering loop.

“Hundreds of miles in total,” he said eventually, then remembered that she could not count above the number of ribs in a human body.  _ “Long.  _ The old Tevinter emperors built them across all their provinces. Most have fallen down or been dismantled for stone, but there’s a lot of intact bits round here.” 

From the confusion writ across Flora’s face, it was clear that she had no idea who the Tevinter emperors were. Still, she thrust her ignorance aside and quickened her pace; the pack lurching as she scuttled past Alistair. Avoiding a final scattering of potholes, she came to a halt at the base of the elevated highway. A ramp, wide enough for two carts to pass, rose from the earth nearby; doubling back on itself twice until it reached the elevation of the road. Letters were carved into the stone at the bottom of the ramp, though the passage of Ages had blurred their ascetic edges. 

Flora tugged away a few damp lumps of moss, peering at the strange etchings. They made no sense to her, but then again, no writing ever had.

_ Can you read this?  _

** _Yes._ **

_ What does it say?  _

There followed only an irritated silence. Flora had expected no less; despite having the wealth of all knowledge at their disposal, her spirits were notoriously taciturn when it came to bestowing information. She had never understood why - perhaps even spirits had some rules to follow when it came to their interactions with the mortal world - but they remained tight-lipped.

Instead she asked Alistair, who had just caught up: “What does this say?”

“Eh?” He bent to peer at the blurred lettering, which had been etched at a height appropriate for a regular-sized man. “Flo - this is  _ Ancient Tevene.  _ Do you think I can read Ancient Tevene? I’m not a scholar. I never learnt to read anything other than kingstongue.”

“Hm,” said Flora, pushing her fingertip into the groove of the first letter. “Well, I think it says:  _ ‘welcome to my road’.”  _

“‘Welcome to my road?’”

“Here are the rules of the road:  _ ‘Do not run.’”  _ she intoned, in the self-important drone of a minor Ancient Tevinter official.  _ ‘Do not drop litter.’” _

Alistair followed her up the ramp, suppressing the urge to laugh. The realisation that he could still laugh, after Ostagar and all that had happened since, was a welcome one. It had not been the first time that he had laughed since Duncan’s death, but it was the first that he recognised that his former self, his humour and levity, had not perished in the valley alongside his commander and their brethren. 

“‘Do not run,’” he repeated, watching her scuttle up the elevated stone. “Well, no chance of that in this armour.”

Reaching the road level, Flora vanished from sight. Alistair continued in her wake, determinedly ignoring the violet smudge of the Southron Hills on the horizon. Instead, he fixed his eyes to the north; to where the shadow of a town lay nestled in the crook of the hills. When he focused, he could just about see the spire of Lothering’s Chantry; rising above the clustered rooftops like a chiding finger. 

“We should be there by midday,” he called up in Flora’s wake. “Just in time for lunch. Maybe one of the taverns will feel sorry for us and give us a free meal?”

There came no reply. Alistair felt a small, irrational clench of alarm in his gut and increased his pace. 

“Flo? Flora?”

Flora had emerged onto the highway, and come to an abrupt halt. The road was in fair condition considering its age: the stone well-trodden but smooth and the pale archways overhead mostly intact. The elevation allowed for a good view of the surrounding landscape; the air still clear and cold as glass. 

However, taking precedent above both environment and engineering were the group of a half-dozen men stationed in the centre of the highway. Their positioning seemed deliberate; two carts at angles blocked the view of the road beyond. Several crates and bags were stacked in careless piles nearby. The men were clad in an eclectic selection of leather and mail, metal gleamed in their hands. Their eyes fastened themselves on Flora like small hooks; swords were slid back into sheaths and fingers flexed.

“What have we here? A little girl.”

“Needs a bath.”

“So do you, idiot.”

Flora felt her spirits give a flare of caution. 

_ I know,  _ she thought to herself, lifting her face to gaze back at them.  _ I know, I know.  _

“Can you speak Ancient Tevene?” she asked them, hoping to distract. “This road has got RULES, but I can’t read ‘em. I like following rules.”

They stared at her, mildly incredulous, as though she was  _ speaking  _ Ancient Tevene. Flora stared back, implacable and entirely unsure how to proceed. Eventually, the man in the forefront gave a rough shudder of a laugh and began to close the distance between them. Stubble crawled over his face like a disease, greyish and unhealthy.

“Come and sit on my lap, darlin’,” he said, his voice thickening. “Don’t you worry about no rules.  _ I _ make the rules round here.”

_ “Flora.” _

There was a tension in Alistair’s voice that she had never heard before, even during Ishal. Before Flora could turn, she felt him at her side; sword singing a metal dischord as it was drawn from its sheath. He took a single step forwards and the vastness of his frame caused several of the group to hastily rethink their strategy. 

“Now, now,” smiled the leader, stroking his chin even as he inched backwards. “No need for swords to be drawn, eh? We’re just…  _ tollkeepers,  _ charged with the maintenance of the Imperial Highway.” 

“Tollkeepers,” repeated Alistair, and gave a short laugh. “Right.”

“A token fee of ten silver will permit you to continue onwards to Lothering,” added a second man, boldly. 

“And a loan of your girl,” murmured the first lasciviously, just loud enough for Alistair to hear. 

Alistair bridled, fists tensing. “What?  _ What  _ did you say?”

“We ain’t got ten silver,” Flora pointed out, anxiously. “We ain’t got ten  _ copper.  _ Will you take mushrooms instead?”

“Flora.” Her brother-warden lowered his voice, drawing closer to her side. “Flora, they aren’t tollkeepers. They’re bandits.  _ Thieves.  _ They probably steal from any refugees heading this way to escape the Darkspawn.”

Flora’s jaw dropped, her eyes widening in accusatory fashion. 

“ROBBING,” she intoned, solemnly. “Is against the  _ rules of the road.” _

“I don’t give a nug shit about your  _ rules,”  _ hissed the leader, his face turning ugly. “I want coin.” 

Flora’s eyes widened into accusatory roundness. 

_ “Swearing,”  _ she began, “is against the ru - “

The leader raised an arm, perhaps to grab her shoulder, or perhaps to strike her; regardless, before he could move, a shimmering ripple of light materialised in front of Flora and slapped the man backwards. He lurched and lost his balance; two of his henchmen scuttled forward to steady him. Flora looked equally astonished, her mouth dropping open. 

“Boss,” one of them yelped, coming to the sudden realisation that the plain length of wood slung over Flora’s shoulder was not, as previously assumed, a walking stick. “She’s a mage. A  _ mage.” _

This was enough to send two of the bandits haring off down the trodden stone, the drumming of their panicked feet chasing them. Four men remained, faces hardening into raw hostility; weapons unsheathed and raised.

Alistair glanced over his shoulder at Flora, who was now biting her nails absentmindedly and scowling. He wished that he could take his sister-warden to one side and consult with her about how to proceed. 

“Have you been robbing everyone who comes this way?” she demanded, finally taking her fingers out of her mouth. “Taking their things? Their money?”

The bulging crates and sacks that spilled from the carts were answer enough. Flora face was indignation personified.

“You’re no better than  _ wreckers!” _ she hissed, pointing a finger. “Ooh, you should see what we do to wreckers in Herring. It ain’t nice.” 

“Neither is what I’ll do to you, you little bitch, once I’ve killed your boyfriend,” snarled back the bandit leader, his blade naked and jabbing. 

This was all the excuse that Alistair needed; lunging forwards with his sword mirroring the sunlight. The man stood no chance, staggering backwards for a second time while attempting to block the blow with his hands. Metal cut into flesh and he let out a howl, folding at the waist. Alistair seized the opportunity and drove the point of his blade at an angle into the man’s shoulder; shoving it down through his throat. He gaped, gobbets of blood surging up within the ragged wound.

Only once the man was shuddering in the final throes of life did Alistair notice an odd, percussive thudding. Looking up from the fresh-made corpse, he realised that two of the other men were firing crossbow bolts at him, one every twelve heartbeats. Their faces fell grey and slack with fear: the bolts were colliding with a filmy, gilded net; the light shifting across it like a soap bubble. Flora was glowering at them from several yards away, her arms folded across her chest.

“You’re all worse than scabby begs from Skingle,” she intoned, grimly. “We have  _ important stuff to do _ ! We cannot be wasting time with you… you  _ bottom feeders.” _

The crossbows went clattering to the ground and the men scattered; one ran straight through the crimson puddle of gore leaking from his leader’s ravaged throat. A trail of bloody footprints was left in his wake as he hurled himself towards the ramp in a blind panic. 

The quiet that followed was like a hushed sigh; as though the ancient highway was grateful for peace restored. Alistair lowered his sword, feeling the adrenaline wane; fingers slackening on the hilt. A half-dozen crossbow bolts lay scattered on the flagstones nearby. Eyeing them, he wiped the flat of his blade against the dead bandit’s cloak, then looked around for Flora. She was frowning, watching the blood flow in rivulets from the dead man. 

“I wonder why he chose  _ this _ ,” she said, waving a vague hand across the discarded weaponry, the bloody aftermath and the ill-gotten spoils. “Robbin’ from others.”

There was a thoughtful note in her tone that made Alistair glance more closely at her as he sheathed his blade.

“Some people just don’t want to do an honest day’s work, Flo,” he replied, heading to the parapet and peering over. The other bandits were fleeing for their lives down the potholed road, their weapons abandoned. “Not sure I can catch up with them in this armour.”

Flora roused herself and eyed the leader’s leaking corpse; puddled wet and crimson against the grey stone. 

“We can’t leave it here,” she said, avoiding a branching trickle of gore. “Some…children might see it.”

Alistair looked up and down the Kingsway; which stretched long and pale in both directions, desolate and void of travellers. 

“I’m not sure that- _ Maker’s Breath! _ ”

He leapt back in alarm: the bandit leader’s body had suddenly combusted in a flare of heat and light. The flames were tinged with violet and gave off an acrid, arcane odour that prickled the nostrils. Within seconds, the corpse was reduced to a heap of charred white ash on the stone; which Morrigan sauntered through with a curling smile. 

“Well, well,” she murmured, her pale gold eyes narrow and amused. “I see we’ve been making friends. My, what a windfall this is. Let us hope that your bandit friends were successful in their endeavours.”

Covetous as a magpie, she turned towards the tangle of chests and sacks spilling from the carts. To her annoyance, Flora was already there; perched on the backboard and in the process of stuffing several fat coin purses down her shirt.

“There’s a Chantry in Lothering,” she said, tucking another jingling bag beneath her armpit. “They can sort out how to return it to the refugees. They ain’t got nothing.”

As one who had been parted from her beloved Herring against her will, Flora could empathise with those who had also been driven from their homes. 

_ “You  _ haven’t got anything either,” hissed Morrigan, the tiny bones in her hair quivering with disbelief. “You are coinless, friendless…! ‘Tis the most ridiculous notion. You do nothing to defy my initial thought of you: foolish little girl. Agh!  _ Why are you smiling?!”  _

“You remind me of Herring,” Flora replied wistfully, slithering down from the cart. “Back home, people are just  _ horrible _ to each other all day. They insult each other. They throw things, they beat up their neighbours for fun if they have to wait on the tide. Ooh, you’d fit right in there.”

Morrigan gave an avian squawk of horror, while Alistair suppressed a smile; mind racing behind the casual cast of his face. 

_ But, from the way Flora describes Herring, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t fit in. She’s kind, and soft-spoken. She’s gentle. _

_ What did Duncan say? There’s something about her that doesn’t quite make sense.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things here! One of the main reasons why I wanted to rewrite at least the first section of my story was that I had a better sense of Flora as a character, especially how she’d be at the beginning of her journey: the naivety, the immaturity, the irreverence and the eccentricity. I wanted to convey how, since she had spent so much time conversing with her spirits and since she has such a lack of real-world experience, her interactions often come off as a little strange. Like, being confronted with bandits and straight away asking them if they can read the language of Ancient Tevinter so they can translate the inscription on the road for her lol.


	25. Lothering

The sun had reached its apex by the time that Lothering came into sight; a smudge of civilisation nestled within the rolling farmlands. It was perhaps too small and ramshackle a settlement to deserve the description of _ town, _ but it had hosted several significant events during the many iterations of Orlo-Fereldan war and thus held an air of lofty self-importance: _ on this spot, King Vanedrin Theirin was beheaded! _Due to its proximity to the Imperial Highway, the town had more recently developed as a trade post between Redcliffe and the east. The emerald portcullis of South Reach fluttered above its gate; alongside the personal arms of Arl Bryland. 

The two young Wardens and their unwilling companion had left the Kingsway behind and were now only a quarter-mile from Lothering. The town itself was obscured by a hastily-built barricade; wooden staves driven into the earth with their crude points angled outwards. More disconcerting were the tents clustered before the improvised barrier; packed dense as mushrooms and ringed with campfires. An array of pale and frightened faces stood out against a backdrop of well-trodden mud. 

“Alistair,” breathed Flora as they neared the end of the dirt road. “Alistair, are these the refugees?”

Alistair had inadvertently slowed his pace, brow furrowing as he cast his gaze around the desolate crowd. There were men and women, families and the elderly; they were mostly human, but with a few elves grouped in tight knots near the fringes. Despite their disparate appearances, all bore the same greyish pallor of worry etched on their faces; except for the children, who darted giggling between the tents as though nothing was wrong. The older refugees sat hunched with their scant possessions drawn close, clinging to what little they had left. The smell of the unwashed mingled with the acrid tang of smoke, beneath it ran the sordid odour of desperation. 

“I - I think so,” the young man replied softly, shifting his pack from one shoulder to the other. “There are so many of them. Look, there are _ soldiers, _too. They must have fought at Ostagar.”

As Alistair spoke, his face changed; a shadow passing swiftly across his features like cloud obscuring the sun. Without offering an explanation, he left Flora and Morrigan on the road and strode towards the nearest armour-clad figure. The two mages watched him exchange a few lines of conversation with the reclining soldier; partway through, Alistair’s shoulders hunched with disappointment. Moments later, he had rejoined them, disappointment souring his face. 

“He didn’t know anything about what happened to Duncan,” he said, quietly. “He was part of Mac Tir’s rear guard, they got ambushed during the - the _ retreat.” _

The words _ Mac Tir _ and _ retreat _slid strangulated from Alistair’s throat, his lip curling with uncharacteristic bitterness. Duncan, submerged beneath a tide of Darkspawn, rose to fill his mind’s eye for the thousandth time. He wondered if his commander had seen the signal fire ignite, and if he had looked towards the valley in expectation of the general’s charge. He wondered at what instant Duncan had realised Mac Tir’s betrayal, or if he had died still believing that there was hope. 

Blind to the world, trembling, he looked down at his clenched fists; the blood pulsing painfully within the contorted fingers. When he looked up again he saw her in front of him, her head turned up to his. A cool, citrine sunlight fell across the exquisite architecture of her face and he noticed a scattering of freckles the colour of weak tea across her nose. The anger coursing around his body slowed, the wild race of his heart pulled back by a gentle tug of the reins. It was the first time, he thought, that her beauty had not intimidated him. Instead he found himself able to appreciate it without feeling the need to lower his eyes. 

“Let’s return this coin to the Chantry,” Flora said softly, patting her rustling cleavage - Morrigan let out a low growl - “and then we can see if they’ll give us some lunch at the tavern.”

“How will we pay for it?” he asked, as if speaking from a dream.

“I’ll sing them a song,” she replied, solemnly. “A Herring sea shanty. Something nice and upliftin’, like the one about the killer octopus.”

“Can you sing?” With each part of their exchange, Alistair found himself drawn out from the storm of rage and grief; like the slow raising of an anchor. 

“Not really,” Flora said, shooting him a sly look from beneath her lashes. “I’m hoping they’ll pay me to shut up.” 

Alistair laughed, feeling the sun on his face once again. 

“Come on, let’s get this on you. Don’t want to be attracting any more attention than needs be.”

They had found a riding cloak amidst the bandits’ stash; the grey wool was faded but good quality, the sort worn by the wives of merchants. It was only a little too large for Flora, but that was not necessarily to its detriment considering that its purpose was to conceal her as much as possible. Alistair drew the hood down over her face as she tucked in stray strands of hair. Morrigan, who had refused the offer of a cloak and only reluctantly agreed to hide her staff alongside Flora’s in the hollow of a tree-trunk, let out a snort of contempt. 

“Do you assume that she will draw _ less _eyes clad in that ridiculous garb? Cloaked and hooded?”

Alistair stepped back and contemplated Flora. As much as it irritated him to agree with the witch, he had to admit that she had a point. 

“We’ll just say that you’ve got a disfiguring disease.”

“They won’t let her in,” Morrigan pointed out, eyes glinting.

“A disfiguring, _ non-contagious _disease. Sound good, Flo?” 

The shrouded figure gave a shuffle; he could sense her confusion.

“I ain’t never had a disease before,” she protested, mildly indignant. “I don’t _ get _sick.”

“Just… don’t overthink it,” he said hastily, nudging her forward. “Come on.”

The road took them directly through the masses, though they attracted little attention. The distraught and dishevelled had turned their backs to each other, huddling closer to their fires. A stagnant pall hung overhead; as though the mute apathy of the crowd had coalesced into a physical miasma. 

Two soldiers clad in the livery of South Reach stood at the break in the hastily erected palisade, faces hard as flint beneath their helms. One held up a warning hand as the travellers approached. 

“Halt,” he called, face hidden behind a cage of steel. “There’s no more room for refugees inside the town. You can set up camp with the rest out here.”

Morrigan laughed, which gained them no sympathy. Alistair had to resist the urge to elbow her, clearing his throat and hoping that his face bore a convincing cast. 

“We aren’t refugees,” he replied. “We’re continuing on to Redcliffe, but my… my sister wants to pray at the Chantry here. For healing.” 

The two guards looked at the cloaked Flora in mild alarm. 

“She’s _ diseased?” _One clutched the hilt of his sword, the other inched backwards. “There are no healers here.”

“No,” said Alistair, hastily. “She- ”

“My nose fell off in the night,” intoned Flora solemnly, her voice emerging from the depths of the hood. “I must pray to the Maker that it grows back.”

Alistair opened and then closed his mouth, blinking several times. The guards looked equally nonplussed, their jaws slack with astonishment.

“Please let me in,” added his sister-warden, pitifully. “I can’t smell _ nothin’.” _

Fortunately, a tangle of shouts and frenzied movement drew the attention of the soldiers. A scuffle had broken out in one corner of the refugee camp; an altercation over a loaf of bread had swiftly turned to blows. The pair unsheathed their swords and strode towards the commotion, bellowing for calm. 

Worried that they might ask to see her noseless face on their return, Flora took the initiative and scuttled through the break in the palisade. Morrigan and Alistair followed swiftly in her wake; the witch biting back an acerbic remark. Not wanting to linger near the town entrance, they headed past a collection of ramshackle cottages and through a market square that now housed tents instead of stalls. A windmill was silhouetted black against the sky, sails stretched out like some elongated, many-armed scarecrow. 

_ “‘My nose fell off in the night,’” _ repeated Morrigan as they came to a halt beside an unhealthy trickle of a stream that divided the town in half. “If only my mother were here to witness such _ foolery. _ ‘Tis certain that she would regret condemning me to your company. Even _ more _so placing the fate of Ferelden on your shoulders. We are all doomed.”

Yet Flora’s head was already turning back in the direction of the refugee camp.

“I’m sure I heard the frostcough back there,” she said, craning her neck. “Did he say that they had no healers?”

“Never mind that,” Morrigan cut across them, her voice slicing through the air. “Unless you use your eyes, you will miss the first stroke of luck that we’ve had on this blasted journey.” 

A crimson nail jabbed through the air towards a noticeboard erected nearby. A few scraps of parchment still clung to the wood, including several yellowing bounties and a plea for a missing Mabari. An old lampoon of King Cailan had been scrawled over with the phrase: _ Maker rest him. _ Beneath that was writ a single word: _ betrayed. _

Alistair felt a flicker of hope: _ perhaps news of Mac Tir’s treachery had spread? _

He then looked to where Morrigan’s finger was thrust, while Flora - who had as much chance of reading the notices as she did the Ancient Tevene on the Kingsway - waited patiently.

“‘Reward: One gold coin per highwayman slain,’” he read aloud. “Bring proof of your deeds to Ser Bryant at the Chantry.”

“You ought to have killed the lot of them,” retorted the witch. “There’s no profit in kindness.” 

“One _ gold _ coin,” said Flora, astonished. “I didn’t know coins came in gold _ .” _

Alistair hid a smile. 

“Come on. We haven’t got any proof of killing the bandits, so we should try and look trustworthy.”

Morrigan sneered, the beads and small bones rattling in her hair as she shook her head. 

“Bah!”

A bridge spanned the shallow stretch of water that meandered through Lothering; dividing the mercantile, the residential and the divine. The Chantry perched on the town’s highest point; geography mirroring its supervisory role. Wood and white-plastered stone rose in angular formation; a low spire was flanked by four empty flag poles. The windows were set high in the walls, the iron-banded glass clouded with age. A few were gathered outside its walls - a refugee family huddled together beneath the baleful eye of a guard, a merchant loaded up goods on a cart - but their meagre presence could not counter the general air of desertion. Lothering seemed to be missing half of its residents. 

“They’ve probably fled,” Alistair said in low tones to Flora, who was staring at the boarded-up dwellings. “Anyone with the sense - and the coin - to do so, anyway. I suppose the rumours of the Darkspawn have reached this far.” 

Flora was clutching her chest: the bags of coin had slipped out of place and were threatening to tumble free. The cloak was hindering her movement and restricting her vision: at that moment, she hated it more than the Archdemon.

“Let’s hand this in,” - a leather pouch slithered to the ground and Flora snatched it up before Morrigan could seize it- “and then find Ser Bryant.”

There were two guards posted at the entrance to the Chantry, their faces terse and weary. After assessing the party in a single, sweeping glance - a vast, broad-shouldered swordsman, a woman that reeked of the arcane with animal bones woven into her hair, and a cloaked figure between them - they bluntly refused entry. 

“Ah, well, ‘tis a shame,” observes Morrigan gleefully; she had no desire to enter a bastion of human worship. “I shall obtain my dinner elsewhere.” 

To the relief of her companions, the witch restrained herself from transforming into a bird on the spot. As she stalked off, Alistair returned his attention to the guards. 

“We have to see the Revered Mother,” he said, thinking _ why does everything on this journey have to be so hard? _

“The Chantry is full,” retorted one of the guards, eyeing Alistair’s bulky frame nervously. “There’s people sleepin’ on the floor. You got to make camp outside with the others.” 

“We won’t take long,” Alistair said, a note of frustration creeping into his words. “Look, what’s the harm in just letting us in? We need to speak with the Revered Mother.”

Both guards bristled, fingers sliding imperceptibly towards the hilts of their blades. 

“Mother Dorothea is not seein’ visitors! She’s far too busy with the refugees.” 

Flora had grown tired of the guards’ protests; she had a northerner’s distaste for wasting time. She shook the hood away from her face, stepped forward and turned her unblinking stare on the two armour-covered men. 

“Move _ now _, please,” she said softly, with polite, flinty bluntness. “This is important.” 

The two men looked at her unveiled face; the full, imperious curve of the mouth, the cold, and fathomless depths of the eyes. Confusion scrawled across their frowning brows: the girl was unwashed, spoke like a commoner, was _ dressed _ like a commoner and yet, and _ yet _there was an air of inexplicable command that radiated from her. It was the sort that was bred meticulously over generations in certain families; so ingrained by a certain point that it exuded from the body naturally and effortlessly. 

Alistair looked at Flora; Flora looked at the two guards; the two guards parted as though in a dream. Flora led the way inside the hollow wooden heart of the Chantry, and then seemed to settle back into her former self as though pulling the cloak back over her head: shy, obedient, a little confused by the world and those in it. It was as though a hand had brushed aside the sand to reveal something hard, sharp and glittering; then the tide had swiftly covered it up again.

“This is a lot bigger than our Chantry in Herring,” breathed his sister-warden, wide-eyed and head swivelling. “Which looks like a shed. Also _ is _a shed. Our Chantry is where we keep our lobster pots.” 

Many nations of Thedas garbed their Chantries in finery: marble-hewn and draped wirh sulks, enamelled tiles in prismatic array competing with exquisite artwork from the most gifted painters and sculptors in tbe land. The Chantry at Val Royeaux was famously gilded from nave to domed ceiling; it was rumoured that a lay brother had been inadvertently blinded when a penetrating sunbeam glanced off a freshly polished floor tile. Ferelden did not have coin to spare on beautifying their Chantries; nor did such an ornate aesthetic appeal. Instead, they worshipped the Maker in bastions of wood and stone, seeking His perfection instead in ascetic, geometric simplicity. Wooden ribbing flew across plastered ceilings; the columns were squat and unadorned; the windows set high, small and plain. The exception to these were the two arched apertures that flanked the entrance, the glass stained a rich amber so that they gleamed like flame. Most Chantries within Ferelden had this same appearance, with only minor regional variety. 

However, Lothering’s Chantry was currently fulfilling a dual role: a refuge as well as a house of worship. The most vulnerable had been given shelter beneath the vaulted roof; the very old, the very young, and those unable to fight. They huddled as though nesting alongside the benches, surrounded by what scant possessions they had managed to carry. They paid little attention to their surroundings, or to each other; their faces slack with misery. The only movement within the Chantry was the lazy writhing of Andraste’s flame, which sat in a low, burnished cauldron of copper within the eastern apse. Alistair and Flora made their way down the central aisle, aware of the hollow beat of their footsteps against the tile. Yet no one paid them any mind; preoccupied with their own sorrowful situation. 

The stillness was disturbed by a figure sweeping their skirts across the nave; a spectre in long white robes and an elongated crimson hat. They exchanged a few words with a lay-brother standing near Andraste’s flame, then vanished into a side-chamber. 

“There’s the Revered Mother,” Alistair murmured, self-conscious at the echo of his voice in the silence. “Mother Dorothea, I think the guard said. Shall we have a word with her about the coin?”

Flora nodded, setting off purposefully down the aisle in pursuit of the white-robed figure. They passed two men sitting near on a bench, their clothing soiled from days of wear; exchanging conversation in low tones. Brief snatches of their exchange carried through the still air, drawing the attention of the two young Wardens.

“... ain’t surprised… didn’t one of ‘em try and assassinate a king, years back? I don’t….”

“ - aye. Only recently they was allowed back in. I always thought…. old saying. _ Never trust a man wearing Grey. _Just shows that- ”

Alistair slowed, but his not-inconsiderable shadow had fallen across the aisle and alerted the two men to his presence. They spared him only a disinterested glance, but the rhythm of their conversation had been interrupted and they spoke no more. 

“Flora,” said Alistair in an uncertain undertone as they continued towards the side-chamber. “Were they… were they talking about the Grey Wardens just then?”

“Dunno,” said Flora, who had heard even less. 

“Why wouldn’t they trust a Warden?” 

A cloud had settled across Alistair’s handsome, olive face; dimming its natural light. Two fine lines had drawn themselves across his brow, as though someone had scored them there with the point of a blade. 

“Not sure,” she said, unhelpfully. “There’s the Revered Mother. I can see her hat.”

Mother Dorothea had just taken a seat at a desk groaning beneath the weight of papers, books, collection platters and various other detritus. The bookshelves crowded around the room were spilling their contents onto the floor; dust motes danced in a narrow finger of sunlight. A spare set of robes hung from a dead-eyed mannequin in the corner.

“Brother Mathias, there’s nothing more that we can give - oh,” the old priestess said, half-rising from her seat. “Greetings, beloved children of the Maker, and welcome to Lothering’s Chantry.”

Despite the kind veneer coating her words, the woman was clearly exhausted and short of time; her eyes darted back to her straining desk even as she spoke. 

“I’m afraid that I don’t have time to perform a marriage. As you can see, we are quite overwhelmed here.”

“A _ marriage?!” _

Alistair almost fell over, while Flora looked bemused. Mother Dorothea waved a brief hand of apology, her eyes drifting back towards her desk.

“Forgive me. I saw a young couple seeking my presence, and these are desperate times, as you know. Many are seeking to gain the Maker’s blessing for their union.”

Alistair felt beads of sweat prickling uncomfortably on his forehead. Flora pressed on, the words spilling out in her haste to voice them.

“You have to get everyone to leave,” she said, soft and urgent. “All the people who came here. The Darkspawn are coming this way. I don’t know when, but they’ll be here soon.”

The priestess sat down and pressed the crevassed tips of her fingers together. Her rheumy, pale green eyes rose to meet Flora’s imploring gaze; and despite her advanced years, they were as keen as a hawk. 

“And _ where _ do I evacuate these people to, young lady? March them along the road to Redcliffe? With what supplies? Who would keep order?”

Flora made no reply, her eyebrows furrowed together. The priestess continued: 

“And how would I even persuade them to leave? Many are tired, sick, starving. There is a frostcough outbreak in the camp. They are in no condition to make a journey in winter. We have no healers.”

“I,” began Flora, and then yelped as Alistair elbowed her swiftly in the ribs. “Ooh, ow.”

She swivelled her face up to her brother-warden and eyeballed him. He ignored her beady stare, returning his attention to Mother Dorothea. 

“Have you heard any news from Denerim?”

“Denerim?” The old woman looked as though she dearly wished their conversation over. “I have no time to keep abreast of politics. The King is dead - Maker guide his soul - but I am sure that Teyrn Mac Tir will prove a sound regent while his daughter is in mourning.”

For a moment Alistair was so consumed with anger that he could not speak. He felt like a blasphemer from a past Age set aflame, except that it was rage and not heat that charred a ragged hole in his belly. 

At that moment, one of the coinpurses slithered out from beneath Flora’s jumper and landed on her foot. Retrieving the leather pouch, she deposited it - and a half-dozen others - onto the cluttered surface of the desk. 

“It’s stolen,” she said bluntly, as the priestess raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Not by us. There were bandits on the Kingsway and we scattered ‘em like fish in the main.” 

Mother Dorothea sat upright, her gaze turning with interest on the small pile of pouches. The next moment she yelped as Flora landed both palms on the desk, leaning forward and fixing her with a stern and unblinking stare.

“You have to _ promise _ to use it to help people to leave, though,” she insisted, pale eyes boring into those of the astonished priestess. “Because the Darkspawn are coming, I swear it. _ Promise _that you’ll use it to help people leave?”

Mother Dorothea seemed to recall at that moment that she was an esteemed figure within the Chantry, and the girl before her was a grubby little nobody. She drew herself up like a bird fluffing its feathers, lips pursing.

“Young lady, I need promise _ you _nothing. The Maker knows that all charity we receive is used for the benefit of the poor. Now, I have much to see to,” the woman cast about her for an incentive that might encourage the unwelcome visitors to leave. “Here, take this with my gratitude for dispersing the bandits. Maker bless you and preserve you.”

It was a clear dismissal, accompanied by the thrusting of a silver candlestick. Flora took it uncertainly; glancing across at Alistair. The young man forced himself from the well of anger and grief that he had been drowning in since Ostagar, and gave a short nod.

“Thank you, Mother. Come on, Flora.” 

As they made their way from Dorothea’s study, Flora waved the candlestick in the air. This, at least, was a familiar currency: bartering was the standard transaction in Herring.

“What can we get for this?”

Alistair took it, frowning at its lightness. The base was weighted, but the shaft and tapered points seemed to be hollow.

“Not much. Not enough to get all that we need, anyway.”

“Ooh.” Flora glanced back towards Dorothea’s study, the corners of her mouth turning down. “I hope she uses that coin to help people leave.”

“Hm.” Alistair had his doubts, but did not voice them in front of his unworldly sister-warden. “I hope so, too. Anyway, we should- ”

The young man noticed then that Flora was not at his side: that she had halted with alarmed eyes fixed on something just beyond him. He turned and saw a Templar, clad in full sword-and-flame regalia; flanked with sword and flail. 

_ “He doesn’t know you’re a mage,” _he had just enough time to hiss down at a quivering Flora’s head. “And you’ve got your Circle dismissal. Don’t worry- ”

“I heard that you cleared out the bandits from the high road,” the Templar said, removing his helm and tucking it beneath his arm. Beneath, he bore the exhaustion of a man attempting to deal with a crisis far beyond his capacity. “I am Ser Bryant, the bounty on their heads was mine. How many were slain?” 

“Just one,” began Alistair, and was interrupted by Flora, who had swiftly overcome her initial alarm at the prospect of gaining enough coin for lunch. 

“Just one, but he were _ the leader,” _she intoned solemnly: a northerner always had an eye for a bargain. “So he’s worth more, ain’t he?”

Ser Bryant peered at her, then let out a snort more becoming of a tavern-keeper than a soldier of the Church.

“Aye, I suppose. Here.” 

Since Alistair was still clutching Dorothea’s candlestick, Flora held up an expectant palm and he placed two gold coins into it. While she boggled at their very existence - _ coins came in gold?! _\- the Templar let out a weary exhalation.

“These are dark and desperate times. If it’s the same man I’m thinking of, he used to make honest coin here in Lothering. Ran the old smithy, the one boarded up near the bridge.”

The Templar shrugged, armour shifting around his shoulders. “The world’s been out of sorts for months now. Good men driven to banditry. Darkspawn coming up from the earth. The Grey Wardens turned traitor.” 

There came a discordant clatter of metal against stone as the candlestick fell to the floor.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a lot of time on this chapter! Since I now know that Lothering gets destroyed later, and that it becomes a big part of Flora’s motivation, I wanted to develop it more. I also wanted to highlight a few more things, like Alistair’s continued grief/anger about Ostagar, bearing in mind it’s only been just over a week since it happened. In terms of Flora’s character, I think this chapter reflects her personality well - the blunt northerner, the compassion, the faintly ridiculous (MY NOSE FELL OFF) as well as the clues towards her heritage. I’ve delayed the arrival of Leliana a little, too! 
> 
> Thank you for the reviews! I’m so happy that people seem to be enjoying this newer version too. Replying to reviews in the reviews, I think that’s a bit easier!


	26. Lies And Truths

_ “What  _ did you say about the Wardens?”

Alistair’s voice was remarkably even, perhaps only a fraction higher than was normal, with the slightest tremor to the words. Yet Flora could see the sudden clench of his fist; the candlestick rolled in a languid arc across the flagstones; there was a sudden dangerous heat in her brother-warden’s face. The Templar, who had believed his remark to be only a passing comment, appeared confused. They stood in the central aisle of the Chantry; the desolate and destitute strewn across the benches around them.

“Eh?”

“ _ You said, _ ” Alistair replied quietly, the full muscle of his body tensed as though ready to lunge.  _ “‘Grey Wardens turned traitor.’  _ What did you mean?” 

Ser Bryant frowned: was the outcome of Ostagar not common knowledge? Loghain Mac Tir’s army had passed by Lothering barely a week prior; their weary march accompanied by tales of tragedy, death and betrayal. 

“The Wardens were responsible for the bloodbath in the valley,” the Templar said, and if he had not been distracted by a refugee leaning on a long wooden stave, he would have seen Alistair’s face twist in shock. “Didn’t you hear? They planned to let the king die so they could seize Ferelden for themselves, though it went badly wrong. Their commander came up with the plot, apparently.”

The notion of Duncan desiring the throne in any shape or form was such a ridiculous one that Alistair laughed; though it was high, wild and humourless. Ser Bryant shot him an odd look, noticing for the first time the dented Templar insignia on his breastplate. The refugee’s wooden stave had turned out to be a harmless walking stick rather than an instrument of magic. 

“That ain’t the truth,” said Flora, shooting an anxious glance at Alistair from the tail of her eye. Her brother-warden was swaying slightly, as though someone had punched him square in the face. 

“From the mouth of General Mac Tir himself,” the Templar said, turning his attention on them more closely. “He stopped here to send a message to the capital before continuin’ north. The Order has been banned from Ferelden. I’m about to post the bounty for any survivors now.”

He gestured to a sheet of creamy parchment; freshly inked and ready to be pinned up.

_ “It’s a lie,”  _ said Alistair faintly, each word an exertion. “It’s not true. The Wardens weren’t - they weren’t- ”

Ser Bryant looked at them as though seeing them for the first time, his mouth pulling taut and suspicious.

_ “Who _ did you say you were, again?” 

** _Time to intervene. _ **

“No one,” said Flora, hastily. “We ain’t no one.” 

Fortunately, a flurry of footsteps came to their rescue: another Templar arrived, red-faced and indignant. 

“Captain, a group of refugees have forced their way past the barricade. They’re demanding the use of empty buildings for shelter. What should I tell them?”

_ “No,  _ clearly,” retorted Bryant, his attention mercifully refocused. “Uncertain times are when order is needed most of all. I’ll tell them myself!”

_ “It’s a lie,”  _ repeated Alistair, louder and angrier this time. “ _ Loghain _ is the traitor! He betrayed the ki- ”

His face was contorting: one moment, consumed with white-hot fury, then suddenly veering off into despair; the tall, brawny bulk of his body trembling like the Anderfels shaken by earthquake. 

Taking advantage of the Templar’s distraction, Flora seized her brother-warden’s arm. Feeling like a rowboat steering a Marcher galleon, she guided him into a side-chapel that was empty of refugees. Intended for private prayer, the windowless chamber was barely large enough to hold a shrine and six benches. Candles clustered into several alcoves in the wall exuded a warm and waxy light. 

Alistair was walking like a maleficar’s reanimated corpse, stumbling through a world that no longer seemed to make any sense. His sister-warden shoved him ungently down onto a bench; then rested on her knees beside him to resolve the difference in their heights. Alistair seemed about to crumple forward at the waist when she put her arms impulsively around his neck, pulling his head beneath her chin. He went rigid for a moment and then let out an unsteady exhalation into the soft yielding of her throat. As her brother-warden let his face rest in the hollow warmth above her collarbone, she pressed her chin to his mail-clad shoulder and closed her eyes. 

There was no way to measure the passage of time from inside the windowless chamber. Flora heard the Templars leave and then return; she heard snatches of conversation between Mother Dorothea and Ser Bryant; then between the Revered Mother and a woman with an accent that Flora could not identify. Alistair was motionless in her arms, only the slight rise and fall of his chest indicated that he was indeed still breathing. 

** _Wasting time, _ ** grumbled her general-spirit irritably near the back of her ear. Compassion, in contrast, hummed with quiet approval. 

_ Is that Andraste?  _ Flora thought, ignoring her general and eyeing the crude features of the shrine effigy. 

** _Yes. _ **

_ Why is she wearing a crown? I thought she were a fisherman’s daughter. Ain’t no fishermen’s daughters wearin’ crowns. It’s not practical.  _

** _Because _ ** the reply came, after an infinitesimal pause.  ** _She did not stay a fisherman’s daughter forever._ **

_ Oh.  _

Alistair shifted against her, exhaling unsteadily. When he raised his face, it was flushed and sweaty from the prolonged contact with her skin. His golden hair was dishevelled and he appeared more  a boy fresh woken than a grown man, shy and disorientated. Flora untangled her arms from him and sat back on the bench; his chainmail was indented pink against her cheek.

“Sorry,” he said, with the reflexive haste of someone used to making frequent apology.

“For what?” Flora’s pale eyes settled on him, quizzical. 

“For… for being weak. Just then.” Alistair’s mouth twisted in shame. “I’m a g-grown man.”

She still looked confused, her muse’s face contorted in perplexion. 

“You ain’t got nothing to be sorry for,” she said after a moment, Compassion murmuring wordless in her ear. “You’ve had a nasty shock. Loghain -  _ Lie-ghain  _ \- is just spouting nonsense. He’s a sea snake.”

“It’s just… hearing those lies about the Wardens. About  _ Duncan.  _ Saying that we’re  _ traitors,  _ Flo.”

“He ain’t going to believe there’s a Blight until he’s halfway down the Archdemon’s throat,” replied Flora, unimpressed. “We’ll show up on his doorstep with our armies and crack his legs like lobster claws.” 

The combination of northern bluntness and Flora’s own eccentricity prompted a reluctant smile from the young man. Alistair looked at her for a long moment, colour rising to the tawny bone of his cheeks as he remembered how the soft flesh of her had felt against his face. He then took a deep breath and gathered himself together, rising to his feet.

“What do you think the odds are on that candlestick still being where I dropped it?”

The two young Wardens, disguised from the world by a dented Templar breastplate and a baggy woollen cloak, made their way back into the main part of the Chantry. As they did so, a lithe figure slipped from the shadows near the entrance; cloaked in the garb of a lay sister but moving with the breathless subtlety of a thief. The candlelight caught briefly on a half-shorn curtain of brick red hair; then the figure melted back into the gloom and vanished from sight.

The silver candlestick gifted by the Revered Mother had vanished, snatched up by some desperate refugee. Nobody would meet their eyea and eventually they left the Chantry without it. The sun was sinking beneath the distant Frostbacks, flooding Lothering with a rich palette of umber and burnt gold. The desolation of the town was muted by the softening light, although the windmill threw its own skeletal silhouette across the abandoned buildings. Within the Chantry, tinted light streamed in through the glass, casting shifting pools of amber on the flagstones. The refugees turned their faces away; too focused on their own misery to appreciate the sight.

Despite their destitution, the two Wardens decided to venture to the inn anyway on the chance that the proprietor was feeling charitable. Between them, they gathered up anything that they could barter - Alistair retrieved a shortsword from his pack that he had never used; Flora offered up a ring so tarnished that the metal was unidentifiable. When he found out that the ring had belonged to her since childhood, he protested; she had shrugged and pointed out that their need was greater. 

The inn was a two-storey timber and stone building, with a slate roof sorely in need of repair. A faded sign above the doorway read  _ Dane’s Refuge,  _ although the accompanying image had long since worn away. The innkeeper had made a half-hearted attempt to bolster his livelihood against the rumours of incoming Darkspawn: sandbags were stacked haphazardly near the door and boards nailed across the lower windows. 

Despite the desperate circumstances, Lothering’s tavern was not short of patrons. A company of men clad in unfamiliar tabards sat drinking in one corner; two dwarven merchants were counting the day’s takings near the hearth. The innkeeper stood behind the bar, half-heartedly wiping out tankards with a grimy rag. 

The two junior Wardens approached the innkeeper with some trepidation. Their arrival caused a mild flicker of interest from the other guests; their eyes passed over the cloaked Flora and settled on the brawny, mail-clad youth at her side. Alistair had never quite grown used to being the tallest man in whatever space he entered; nor did he enjoy the attention it attracted. 

“Evening,” began Alistair, hoping that his voice was emerging easy and confident. “Do you have a room free? I’m afraid that we don’t- ”

He cut off his own query abruptly, gaze fixed on the parchment pinned to the wall behind the innkeeper’s head. It was the bounty clutched in Ser Bryant‘s armoured fist earlier: a reward for each Grey Warden taken prisoner, redeemable from Loghain Mac Tir.

Flora, sweating beneath the heavy wool, threw back the hood of the cloak.

“This is in exchange for a room,” she said; thrusting forward the tarnished ring in the centre of her palm. It resembled something dredged from the bottom of the river: grubby and wholly unappealing. “Yes? Please?”

She had never quite mastered the art of Herring-style bartering; as a healer, she had no intention of accompanying her offer with the threat of a punch. 

But the innkeeper was not looking at the ring, he was looking at her face with his mouth drooping and brows furrowed; as though straining to complete an interrupted thought. While he hesitated one of the company men in the corner called out across the tavern; a leer in his voice. 

“I’d take the girl in exchange for a room if I were you, barkeep.”

This succeeded in jolting Alistair from his reverie. Before he could turn and snap a retort, the innkeeper too reclaimed his senses.

“Your room is ready,” he said, with a note of unusual deference. “As is your dinner. If it pleases you to take a seat, I’ll have it brought out.”

Alistair and Flora’s eyes met; both equally confused. Flora’s fingers closed over the ring and she withdrew her hand.

“Sister Leliana has already paid coin for your bed and board. She insisted on a  _ good _ room,” continued the innkeeper, eyes darting nervously in a manner that suggested that he did  _ not  _ want to get on the wrong side of Sister Leliana. “You will tell her that I followed her instruction, won’t you? Please, take a seat. She wanted you both fed and watered.”

A bemused Alistair found his voice at last. 

“But we don’t know who this  _ Sister Leliana  _ is,” he said, as Flora gave a solemn nod of corroboration. “I’ve only passed through Lothering once before, and that was almost a year ago.”

The innkeeper’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug, his moustache quivering.

“Look, I don’t know. All she said was:  _ bed and board for the tall swordsman and the fair-faced girl. _ ”

The tall swordsman and the fair-faced girl looked at one another, and in a single mutual glance agreed not to question their luck any further. The innkeeper steered them to a table near the hearth, promising the swift arrival of bread and stew. Firelight spilled across the wood, gleaming dully against the pewter curve of the tankards. After a brief protest, Alistair allowed Flora to take the seat with her back to the tavern; they would attract less attention with her face hidden, and her shield would block any sudden strike. Neither had forgotten the bounty pinned to the wall; Loghain Mac Tir’s seal fixed heavy and crimson at the bottom of a death sentence written in spidery ink.

As the innkeeper had promised, food and drink arrived soon after. Alistair fell on the meat stew as though he had not eaten in a fortnight; Flora was no less eager. The bread was stale but neither complained, devouring a loaf between them. Only when there were only crumbs and dregs left did they realise that they had an observer.

“I’ve never seen such gluttony,” breathed Morrigan, fascinated. “Surely, ‘tis a pair of hogs.” 

“I thought you’d flown back to the Wilds,” retorted Alistair, swallowing his last mouthful. “Ah, well. I’ll just have to live with the disappointment.”

Flora shifted herself along the bench to make room for the witch, her brow furrowing as she surveyed their scavenged plates.

“I’ll ask for more food,” she said, distressed. “You need to eat as well.”

Morrigan did not take up the offer of a seat, though the corner of her painted mouth twitched slightly at the gesture. Instead, she crossed her arms and eyed the other patrons of the tavern, her lip curling. The men in the company had departed, leaving plates and spillages in their wake. Only the two dwarven merchants remained, alongside a sour-faced elf drinking alone in the corner. 

“I spent years as a child wondering what life beyond the Wilds was like,” she observed acerbically, keen yellow gaze sweeping across the chamber. “Certain that it was  _ full _ of the excitement and glamour that a humble marshland could not provide. Is this  _ it _ , then? I was deluded. ‘Tis a huge letdown. I would return home, if I was not certain that my mother would send me back.”

“This is a small tavern in a rural village,” Alistair pointed out, wiping a fleck of ale from his jaw. “Not some… lady’s salon in Val Royeaux. You won’t find any glamour or excitement here.” 

Flora cast about in her mind for something  _ exciting  _ for the witch to occupy herself with.

“You could go and have a look at our room,” she said at last, for want of anything else. “It’s the one at the end of the corridor. Sister Lel- Lelyan - Lillian paid for it.” 

Morrigan grimaced at the prospect, deigning instead to sit beside Flora on the bench. Alistair took another long draw from his tankard and leaned back, comfortably full-bellied for the first time since they had left Ostagar. The Chantry sister’s generosity was also the first stroke of luck that they had had since the massacre in the valley. It was a welcome end to a day that had included several most  _ unwelcome _ revelations.

“Hey, Flo,” he said, glancing over the table towards his sister-warden. She had just finished her own tankard of ale, grimacing as the liquid dissolved into its component parts on her tongue. The cloak was bundled on her lap, the mass of dark red hair tied in a knot atop her head. The knot had been slowly slipping to the side all day; its current position was just above her left ear. 

“Eurgh, yuck. Eh?”

Alistair let out a self-conscious half-laugh, fingers drumming against the wood.

“I wonder why Mother Dorothea thought we wanted to get married?”

He looked at Flora once again from the tail of his eye. She was grubby, the hair needed a good wash and a dedicated hour of brushing, the woollens she wore were both ugly and shapeless; and yet she could easily have been stolen from some museum pedestal, or from the shelf of a glass display case. If he pressed a finger to her cheek he would not have been surprised to find it sculpted from marble, or from cool white ivory. In stillness she might have painted on silk by an Orlesian painter in the Age of Towers. 

“Hm. Dunno,” said Flora, sounding more like the lowly boy who carried the easel for the Orlesian painter. “I was meant to be gettin’ married to the lobster pot weaver back in Herring. Before I got taken.”

She did not look unduly bothered by the abrupt severance of her betrothal, biting at her thumbnail. Alistair eyed her for a moment, wondering why he was so interested.

“Weren’t you only fifteen when the Templars took you?” he asked, watching her inspect her thumb.

“Mm, something like that,” replied Flora vaguely. She had no idea how old she was; the Circle had decided that she was neither a child of ten, nor a grown woman of twenty, and so placed her squarely in the middle.

“Did you  _ want  _ to get married?” 

She shot him a perturbed look from those pale, clear eyes. “Weren’t up to me. My dad wanted an unlimited supply of lobster pots.”

Morrigan, who had only been half-listening to the conversation, let out a sudden squawk of horror. Her black-nailed fingers splayed out against the wood as she pressed her palms to the table. 

“You two got  _ married  _ just now?!” she howled; drawing the attention of half of Lothering. “And we are to share a room tonight? I am  _ not  _ willing to witness the consummation of this… this… this  _ unholy union!” _

Alistair almost choked on the dregs of his ale while Flora’s brow creased in confusion.

“We didn’t get married,” she clarified, fiddling with the fraying sleeve of her tunic. “What does con-  _ consummation  _ mean?”

“Ask your brother-warden,” came the snide reply: Morrigan had noticed the slow, crimson flush creeping up Alistair’s neck.

Flora turned her face expectantly towards Alistair, who offered a prayer to the Maker in the hopes that his voice would emerge steadily. 

“It’s when a man and woman- ” the two dwarves shot him a pointed stare “- or, a man and a  _ man… _ or a woman and a woman…”

He was certain that sweat was beading on his forehead now, and that the flush had encroached onto his cheeks. Flora was gazing at him unblinking, and the pressure of being under her long-lashed scrutiny was unbearable. 

“Or  _ anyone _ , does something with  _ anything -  _ well, not exactly  _ anything-  _ the Chantry forbids… certain…  _ acts _ … with certain…  _ things... _ ” 

Alistair wished fervently that the floor would break apart beneath him, sending him plunging into the Deep Roads and  _ away from this conversation.  _ Morrigan was laughing openly, and even the two dwarves were looking at him with pity. Then, to his infinite relief, the clouds of confusion cleared from Flora’s face. 

“Oh,” she said, astonished. “Bedding someone?”

He exhaled unsteadily, feeling as though he had just been in single combat with a Hurlock. 

“Yes.”

Flora smiled at him across the table and the vice that had been gripping his shoulders loosened; tension draining onto the ale-stained floor of the tavern. She thought about asking him what  _ acts _ were forbidden by the Chantry, but then grew distracted by the curling pattern of ash against the plaster: the ghost of fires past. Alistair knew that he had been granted the perfect opportunity to end the conversation, or to divert it down some less inflammatory route, but he heard his mouth forming the words before he could stop it. 

“Have you - have you ever….  _ bedded  _ someone?”

Morrigan’s face swung towards him like a panther on the prowl. Alistair was vaguely aware of the incredulous contortion of her mouth, but found himself ignoring it; his attention was entirely on his fair-faced sister-warden. 

“No,” she replied, with an amiable shrug. “I ain’t never.”

Alistair was astonished. 

“I thought - I was  _ sure _ that- ” 

Flora eyed him with mild interest, small fingers still plucking at the loose thread at her sleeve. He ploughed on, committed now.

“- that you and Duncan had… you know.”

He could not transform his scattered thoughts into words, though he had no evidence that anything sexual had ever transpired between his sister-warden and their commander. The way that Duncan had looked at her was proof of nothing, since similar stares followed Flora wherever she went. All else that fuelled his suspicions was circumstantial: the casual intimacy prompted by her healing, Duncan’s palm on the small of her back, the stillness of his body as he listened to her babble for hours about her spirits. 

Flora shook her head in a single back-forth denial, her eyes pensive. 

“No,” she said, pressing her fingertip into the curve of a spoon and absentmindedly spinning it against the surface of the table. “How about you?”

“No.” He mirrored her response, as Morrigan’s jaw dropped with comedic incredulity. “I spent my youth in a Templar monastery. We saw women once a month if we were lucky, and they were usually grey-haired priestesses with whiskers. It took me eight years to get my first kiss after I moved there.”

Morrigan made a retching sound, and was ignored by both.

“With a grey-haired priestess?” asked Flora, stifling a fishwife’s cackle in her grubby woollen sleeve. “Did her whiskers tickle?”

“Ha,” Alistair replied, shooting her a wry look. “No. With a visiting lay-sister - an  _ older woman,  _ I might add.” 

_ A woman with a round, jolly face and kind brown eyes,  _ he thought to himself, wryly.  _ The sort of woman that I used to fantasise about.  _

Looking up, he noticed the deceptive arrogance of the full, curving mouth; the cold, seawater grey eyes that were so at odds with the girl beneath the skin. 

“Have  _ you _ ever kissed anyone?” the young man asked, aiming to distract himself. 

Flora thought for a long moment, the spoon idle between her fingers. She recalled the candlelit interior of a grey-striped tent; the smell of foreign wood burning on the brazier; a meeting of lips which had begun as healing, but ended differently. 

“I have  _ been  _ kissed,” she said eventually, careful to put the emphasis on the correct words. “But  _ I _ ain’t ever kissed anyone.” 

“Huh,” Alistair replied, lifting his tankard to hide a sudden flush; only to find it empty. “Fancy that.”

Flora smiled at him, suddenly oddly wistful. The knot of hair was now unravelling; ropes of dark red hair trailing down her shoulders like spilt wine. Her fingertip was still planted in the belly of the spoon, spinning it in languid circles across the wood. 

_ “VIRGINS,”  _ screeched Morrigan, cutting across them both with the usual lack of grace. “I cannot believe that the fate of Ferelden has been entrusted to a pair of VIRGINS. Doomed, doomed; we are all  _ doomed.”  _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve made Alistair more angsty in this chapter compared to the original because I feel like it’s more realistic; its only been like a week since the Wardens got reamed at Ostagar!) anyway, I love writing the development of relationships between characters and I thought there were some nice moments here. Lol I know the licking the lampposts in winter line is classic Alistair but I can’t include it because poor Flora is so literal, she would never work out what he was on about lol
> 
> Again we see the difference between Flora’s healing and a kiss - she’s put her mouth on hundreds over the years, but she doesn’t count it as a kiss! More like CPR, except she’s not putting her mouth over the nose as well lol. Ha ha reminds me of when I signed up to be the work first aider in our office because it was a paid day off to go to the course, then the next week a visitor broke their arm falling down the steps and I actually got called into action T_T


	27. In The Tavern Bedchamber

The innkeeper, still deferent to the spectre of the mysterious Sister Leliana, led the two Wardens and the witch to their chamber. The rooms were clustered around the upper part of the tavern; plainly clad yet serviceable, and each one occupied. Those few refugees who had managed to seize coin before their flight had purchased their place beneath a roof, behind the safety of the town wall while their penniless brethren remained in misery under canvas, beyond the barricade. 

Each room they passed was shut; though snatches of muffled conversation crept through the gap between door and floorboard. A husband and wife argued in frenzied whispers, while a low sobbing keened from a neighbouring room. The corners of Flora’s mouth turned down at such audible misery. She looked at Alistair’s broad back as he advanced before her, then at the hapless shrug of the innkeeper.

“These are hard times,” the man said, defensively. “At least them in here’s got a roof over their heads. Could be worse.” 

Flora recalled the damp and weary knots of refugees huddled on the mud outside the town; smudges of fire barely providing enough warmth to heat the palms. The younger children had still possessed the strength to chase each other around, squealing and half-manic; their older siblings stared at the hollow eyes of their parents and drew close to them for comfort. She shivered, winding her fingers in the damp grey wool of her cloak. 

“Here. I’ll have a bath sent up, if you’re wantin’ one.”

The innkeeper produced an iron key from the depths of his tunic, swinging open the door at the end of the corridor. The chamber within was bathed in a soft ale-gold glow from the hearth; a fire had already been laid in anticipation of guests. It contained a large bed, a couch upholstered in faded red and a wooden chest for storage; shutters were drawn across the window to block out the moonlight. Rough wooden beams ran the length of the white-plastered ceiling, and the floorboards sat uneven on their joists. 

Morrigan let out an unimpressed huff under her breath, her lip curling. 

“Thank you,” said Alistair hastily before any snide remark could emerge from the witch’s throat. “And… thank this Sister Leliana… whoever she might be?”

The innkeeper did not rise to the bait. Leaving the iron key on the chest, he reversed through the doorway; pulling the door into the frame in his wake. 

“My first night under a tavern roof,” Morrigan observed, stalking across the weary floorboards. “I am not overly impressed. Still, ‘tis better than sleeping in ruins and haystacks, I suppose. If either of you wake me before dawn, I shall be deeply unamused.”

Her body rippled as she spoke, the arcane blurring the contour of skin and flesh. Her form shrunk in on itself, twisting as it reforged anew; a lithe black cat sprang up onto the velvet couch and curled itself in an angry little fist. Alistair gave an involuntary shudder, dropping his pack onto the bed. It had taken him over a month to grow used to Flora’s mending, which now seemed laughably tame in comparison to Morrigan’s strange, wild sorcery. 

“If only the Templars at the monastery could see me now,” he observed wryly, naming the sanctum in Bournshire where he had spent almost a decade. “Sharing a room with two mages. They’d probably excommunicate me.”

Alistair waited for Flora to ask what  _ excommunicate  _ meant. Aware of her own ignorance, she usually sought any opportunity to expand her vocabulary; but she was still preoccupied with the refugees huddled on the cold dirt outside. Brow furrowed, she let her pack slither to the floorboards, resting her weight on her sound knee.

“Flora?”

“Did you hear them coughing?” 

He was now checking the contents of their packs, spreading the damp blankets and bedrolls before the hearth to dry out . 

“Who?”

“The people outside.” She waved a hand towards the shuttered window, as though the refugees were pressing their desperate palms against the glass. “There’s frostcough in their camp, I  _ heard  _ it. It’ll be everywhere by morning, it spreads so quick.”

Compassion gave a voiceless murmur of agreement; their presence like a bottomless pool in the base of her skull. 

Alistair’s shoulder rose and fell in a helpless shrug. One of the bedrolls was giving off an odour of mildew; he hoped that the smoking hearth might fumigate it.

“If the Darkspawn keep spreading over the south, there’ll be a lot more sick refugees, Flo. We have to keep focused on… on what we have to do.”

He sighed inwardly:  _ gather armies from across Ferelden, depose Loghain and defeat the Archdemon.  _ The more he thought about it, the more impossible their task seemed.

Fortunately at that moment both young Wardens were distracted by the arrival of the bathtub; heaved into the chamber by two panting servants and placed before the hearth. 

Flora and Alistair took it in turns to bathe, one using the water while the other sat on the floor and faced the window. At her insistence, he had the first use; she preferred her water cool. While he tried to fit his long limbs inside the tarnished copper tub, they exchanged theories about their mysterious benefactor. 

“So she’s a priestess?” said Flora to the window, less familiar with the structure of the Chantry. The floorboards were warped with age and wear: she could see the gleam of the tavern’s fireplace between them. “The innkeeper said she was a ‘sister’.” 

“Maybe,” Alistair replied, water streaming between his shoulders in rivulets as he stood up. “She could be a lay-sister. Don’t you think he sounded afraid of her? Throw me the blanket.”

“Mm.” Flora withdrew her finger from where she had been experimentally prodding the gap in the floorboards. When she hurled the blanket blindly over her shoulder, he had to lunge forward to stop it from sailing into the hearth. “He did sound scared. I wonder why?”

Neither of them could come up with any plausible explanation. After Flora had dunked herself perfunctorily in the water - grimly aware that her hair would take most of the night to dry - the two junior recruits then had to decide what to do about the bed. They eyed it in wary silence as though it might suddenly explode like Qunari  _ gatlock. _

“Well, you have to have it,” Alistair said eventually, scratching the day’s stubble on his jaw.  _ “Obviously.” _

Flora did not think it was  _ obvious  _ at all. She perched herself gingerly on the edge of the lumpen mattress, then immediately pulled a face.

“I can’t sleep on this!”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s too comfortable,” she replied; used to bedrolls and hard Circle bunks. “It hurts my back.”

“It hurts your back because it’s  _ comfortable?” _

“Mm. You have it.”

“I can’t sleep on a bed while a girl sleeps on the floor,” retorted Alistair indignantly. “It’s… it’s not  _ right.”  _

In response Flora leaned her rump against the edge of the mattress, using her body weight to shove it backwards. The mattress slumped off the bed at Alistair’s feet, leaving the baseboard of the bedframe bare. 

“There,” she said, triumphant. “Sorted.”

Morrigan still had her face pressed into her black-furred flank; either asleep or wilfully ignoring her surroundings in the manner unique to cats. Alistair set himself the task of bolstering the fire with enough fuel to last until morning, while Flora padded around, her wet hair falling beyond her waist, pinching out the candles. The noise from the tavern below had grown subdued; the remaining patrons stumbling out into the unwelcoming damp clutch of evening. A few bars of moonlight slid through the shutters, striping the baseboard of the bed with silver. 

As the Chantry bell tolled to mark the day’s final prayers, Alistair settled down on the mattress before the hearth; his sister-warden curled up on the naked slats of the bed, wrapped in blankets like an onion. Flora had also rejected the pillow, preferring to nestle her face in her arms as she lay belly-down. 

“I slept on the floor in Herring,” she informed Alistair, her voice sliding down to where he lay. “My dad says it builds character.” 

“Hm,” replied Alistair, tucking his hands behind his head and gazing up at the beams running across the ceiling. “Did he, now.” 

“Mm.” 

Flora turned her cheek sideways against her forearm, watching the slow writhe of flame in the hearth. She had once gone through a phase of sleeping with her face turned away from the fireplace. After she had arrived at the Circle - where her limitations in magic had been so brutally pointed out to her - glimpsing fire effortlessly sprung from wood seemed a strange sort of mockery:  _ this, you cannot do.  _ Three nights spent moping in the Fade and her general spirit had ordered her to stop sulking; ever-obedient, she had done so.

Alistair had built a good fire in the hearth - the kindling arranged in a neat grid, with larger logs placed on top. The wind snatched the smoke up the chimney, dark streaks of ash smeared along the white plaster like spilled ink. Around them, the bones of the building gave a sigh as they settled; it was an old structure and nothing sat quite in place any more. 

“Did you hear the dwarves talking earlier?” Flora asked the fire-streaked shadow, her mind still too preoccupied with the plight of the refugees to sleep. 

“Hm?” 

“They said that a star had fallen into the Tolimar Pass,” she said sleepily, twisting a skein of damp hair around her finger. “They were going to look for it. Mine it for ore.”

Alistair let out a snort, finally leaving the poker alone and settling back on the mattress.

“Stars don’t fall out of the sky. If they did, the constellations would keep changing.” 

Flora acknowledged the logic of his point, watching the tip of her finger turn white. As it began to throb she freed it, half-wishing that she had dried her hair before retiring for the night. The shadows in the room shifted with the fire; the chest looked like a man crouching in the corner. The cat-Morrigan twitched the end of her tail as though chasing something in her dreams.

“Flora?”

She turned her face towards where Alistair lay before the hearth. The size of his body was not built for standard mattresses; the lumpen pallet seemed like child’s bedding beneath his sprawling frame. The profile of the face was traced in gold by the fire behind him: the strong nose jutting above the stern, strong line of the jaw. 

“Mm?”

Alistair hesitated before speaking, and when the words emerged, they were low and remorseful.

“I - I wanted to say that I’m sorry.” 

She was from Herring and they did not waste air on platitudes; she let him speak without interruption.

“Sorry for the way I’ve acted over the past week,” her brother-warden continued. “I’ve been selfish. I was upset about Ostagar, and about what Lo-Loghain- ” he floundered for a moment, “about what  _ Mac Tir  _ did. And I’ve been grieving for Duncan too, I suppose. I know I ought to feel sad but I just feel so - so  _ angry.  _ At everything. It’s just not… it’s not fair. We shouldn’t have to deal with this, not on our own. We’re only junior recruits.”

Aware that he was rambling, he trailed off miserably. Flora was quiet for a moment, watching her nail beds gleam silvery gold in the darkness. 

“You don’t need to be sorry,” she said, softly. “You haven’t been selfish. And you have a good reason to be angry. I understand it.”

Alistair looked up at the bed, where his sister-warden lay huddled on her belly; her damp hair trailing down beside the blanket. 

“Are you angry, then?” he asked, curious. “About what happened at Ostagar? You don’t show it.” 

Flora turned her face to the side; he saw the pale, pointed chin settle in the crook of her elbow. She took his question seriously, giving it due consideration. 

“Yes, but I’m saving it up,” she replied, eventually. “Until it’s useful. Being angry won’t do nothing to help us at the moment. We have things to do.” 

It was a typical northern response: practical and dispassionate, yet strangely comforting in the circumstances. 

“You’re right,” he said, almost wonderingly. “There’s no point in being angry now, when he - Mac Tir - won’t even know about it.” 

“Mm.” She was still looking at him, her gaze grey and luminous in the shadow. 

Alistair folded his fingers across his abdomen and returned his stare to the ceiling, pensive. A log split in the fire with a sound like a dead branch breaking, sending a flurry of sparks up the chimney. Somewhere outside, an owl called a strident query into the darkness. 

“You know,” Flora said eventually, her voice small. “I’m sad about Duncan too.”

He turned his head but was not swift enough to catch her eyes; she was now looking at the ceiling, her face veiled by shadow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short-ish chapter tonight because firstly I’ve had such a busy week!! Spending lots of time with the husband and our gorgeous baby, making memories as a little family :D and secondly, the next bit is when Flo goes to visit the refugees and I didn’t want that to share chapter space with this bit! 
> 
> Anyway, I’m pleased to announce that after my 8 month hiatus from writing during a difficult pregnancy, I’m fully back into it as a hobby - I’m having so much fun reworking this story! :D such a nice piece of escapism from being a new mum :)


	28. The Frostcough

A new moon rested against a sky the colour of a week-old bruise. Night brought neither peace nor respite to the refugees huddled on Lothering’s fringe. Vigilance had to be maintained lest their scant belongings be stolen by some equally desperate neighbour; the children had lost their earlier energy and were whining to return home. Lothering’s guards, clad in the forest green livery of Arl Bryland of South Reach, made the occasional patrol. Any appeal to them was ignored: their task was to keep order rather than provide aid. The hoarse bark of frostcough pierced the gloom in a half-dozen places, accompanied by the groans of men injured during the flight from Ostagar. Between the sounds of the sick and dying, the bite of a callous wind and the complaints of the young; there would be little rest in the camp tonight. 

Within Lothering’s tavern, the innkeeper yawned as he scrubbed the worst of the stains from ale-ringed tables. A rhythmic scrape of wood over stone rose to the ceiling beams as the innkeeper’s wife swept up the detritus of the day. Overhead, those who had the coin to purchase a bed beneath a roof, huddled miserably under motheaten blankets and brooded over all that had been snatched from them. 

In the simple end-chamber, all was quiet save for the rustling murmur of the hearth. Morrigan, still in the form of a sleek black cat, was curled in a knot on a side-chaise; her tail draped deliberately over her eyes. Alistair, his frame too long for the mattress placed beside the bed, lay with his feet dangling over the floorboards. Despite the inconvenience, the rise-and-fall of his chest suggested that he too was deep in sleep. 

Flora lay awake on the naked baseboard of the bed, clutching the blanket up to her chin. She knew that she too ought to try and rest - tomorrow, they would set out on the Redcliffe road - but her mind clung to the crowds beyond the town wall. She thought that she could hear the frostcough’s distinctive rattle from the corners of their own bedchamber; as though someone with ice-cold hands and frothing lips was lurking in the shadows. 

_ It’s just in my head, isn’t it? _

Compassion was humming around her skull like a swarm of bees. Flora rolled from her back onto her belly, peering down through her elbows. She could see the dusty floorboards between the slats of the baseboard, along with threads of firelight from the tavern below. 

_ I should try and sleep,  _ the young mage thought to herself, glumly.  _ We have a long way to walk tomorrow.  _

_ I’m not supposed to show my magic.  _

_ Alistair said: the less attention we draw to ourselves, the better.  _

Her brother-warden, silhouetted against the melting amber glow of the hearth, was snoring. Flora was pleased to see him sleeping soundly, and hoped that the spirits were granting him peaceful dreams. Rolling over onto her back once again, she gazed up at the ceiling beams. They reminded her of human ribs; their rigid lengths supporting the roof and spanning the walls. 

_ I can’t just sleep.  _

** _Then go, _ ** snapped her general-spirit, irritably.  ** _Do what you must. _ **

Compassion offered no words, but gave a soft sigh of approval. 

Careful to avoid the noisiest floorboards, Flora swung her legs down and retrieved her boots and the grey woollen cloak. There was a foot of space between the bed and the mattress bearing a snoring Alistair; she shuffled along it carefully, clutching the cloak in her arms. Halfway to the door, the wood gave a groan of protest beneath her boot. Flora froze, head rotating towards the prostrated sprawl of her brother-warden. Another snore rose from the mattress and she exhaled, turning back to the door. As she did so, she caught sight of a pair of orange eyes; gleaming with autumnal radiance in the gloom. They were focused on her with mild interest.

Flora looked at the cat; the cat looked back. It made no movement, the tip of its tail flickering. At last, not sure what else to do, she pressed a finger to her lips:  _ shh.  _ The cat eyed her in silence. Realising that Morrigan was not going to try and stop her, Flora returned her attention to the door. The rust-speckled key jutted from the lock; Alistair had claimed that leaving it there would prevent anyone from using a second key to enter. Flora had to take his word for it since she knew very little about keys, or indeed about locks. No building in Herring had a lock, and there was no privacy in a Circle to warrant the use of one. Recalling how Alistair had used the key earlier, she turned it tentatively to one side. A metallic  _ clunk  _ came from somewhere within the mechanism and the door opened when she nudged it. 

The narrow corridor was drenched in shadow like spilled ink; the only light came from the dying hearth in the tavern below. Grateful for the natural light exuding from her fingertips, Flora tugged the door in her wake and inserted the key into the lock. After fiddling until she heard the distinctive  _ clunk _ , she pulled the key out and crouched down, prodding it back through the gap under the door. 

Navigating by the gleam of her fingers, Flora made her way along the passage and down the steps into the tavern. The chairs and benches were all shoved beneath the tables; a broom leaned against the far wall. Loud snores echoed from a room behind the bar. As she crept between the deserted tables, she could not help but feel as though she were breaking some inexplicable rule. 

_ Why am I sneaking? I don’t need to sneak, do I?  _

** _There is no need to ‘sneak’. _ **

Being awake after hours - being  _ out and about  _ after hours - had been a punishable offence for much of Flora’s life. Now, for the first time, there was nobody to tell her what to do. She had spent her childhood obeying her father, and then the next four years in fear of the Templars. For five short weeks she had followed Duncan’s command; now, she was under noone’s instruction but her own. It was a disconcerting feeling. 

_ Pull yourself together,  _ she told herself, sternly.  _ You have to follow your own orders now.  _

_ Ooh, what if the front door is locked? _

Fortunately, it was only barred. Shrugging on the cloak, Flora lifted the wooden bar and made her way out into the night. A thin, grey light hung in the air; the moon overhead was shrouded with cloud. The buildings of Lothering seemed to draw closer together in the darkness, while the Chantry was outlined above them in authoritative silhouette. A faint bloom of frost clung to the windows, obscuring the glass. 

Inexplicably nervous, Flora crept between the buildings, retracing their route from earlier in the day. The skeletal spine of the Imperial Highway rose up from the earth to the west; the granite gleaming milky white in the moonlight. 

_ When was it built again?  _ she thought to herself, skirting around the abandoned smithy.  _ The raised road. _

** _Your brother-warden told you earlier. _ **

Flora frowned. Taking a wild guess, she named the period that her general-spirit had lived and died in. 

_ Towers. _

** _No. _ **

_ The Blessed Age. _

** _Certainly not. That was the Age before this one. A heartbeat of time ago. _ **

She gave up, reminding herself solemnly that her strengths did not lie in her education. A thin, misting drizzle had begun to blow across the road and for the first time Flora did not appreciate it. She thought of the crowds of refugees camped outside the barricade, and remembered that they were  _ southerners  _ and not used to the rain as she was. To her, such inclement weather was a nostalgic reminder of home. To them, it was yet another misery they were forced to bear. Her poorly-mended knee gave a sudden, sharp twist and Flora inhaled suddenly, reaching down to clutch at it. After a moment, the pain subsided and she was able to continue onwards.

The moon watched her with a cold, white eye as she approached the barricade that separated town from camp. To her relief, the guards were no longer posted at the gap in the hastily-nailed wood. Beyond the fence, tents sprouted like mushrooms, surrounded by damp huddles of bodies. Fires were dotted in bright array like an earthly constellation; gleaming apricot against the darkness. 

Flora pulled the hood of the grey cloak over her head, slowing her pace as she was overcome with a sudden nervousness. She still felt as though she might get into trouble for her nocturnal wandering, despite the absence of any senior figure that might berate her. She was also not accustomed to creeping around at night; the world seemed a different and more intimidating place in the absence of sunlight. 

_ Come on,  _ the young mage told herself, sternly.  _ Stop being such a cowardly catfish. _

** _Commit to your course, _ ** added her general-spirit, unhelpfully.

Flora committed. Holding her breath for no discernible reason she scuttled through the gap in the wood. When it became clear that no guard was going to pursue her, she drew to a halt and looked around at the damp walls of canvas. She was suddenly reminded of the Grey Warden camp at Ostagar, and felt a pang of sadness in her belly. 

Swiftly suppressing it, Flora focused instead on the task at hand; listening out for the frostcough’s distinctive rasp. Sure enough, after only a few moments she heard a hoarse bark drift past on the air. It had come from one of the nearby dwellings; a haphazard draping of tattered fabric over poles. Visible through a yawning gap in the canvas were a family huddled together; too cold and hungry to sleep. The scent of misery rose from them, alongside the odour of unwashed bodies. 

Pausing outside the tent, Flora unshrouded her face; realising that nobody in such desperate circumstances would care what she looked like. Tentatively she rapped her fingers against the tattered canvas, her heart drumming within her ribs. 

“‘Scuse me,” she whispered, recalling the polite niceties she had learnt during her time in the Circle. “‘Scuse me. I was wondering- ”

“Is it one of those fel-blasted guards, Baelin?” came a weary demand from within. “Go tell them to leave us alone, Maker take ‘em! We’ve already moved the tent away from the road- ”

A man’s face emerged from the darkness, sallow and squinting. It eyed the hovering Flora for a long moment without comment. 

“It ain’t a guard,” the man said, eventually. “It’s a lassie. Eh, what do you want?”

“A  _ lass?”  _ hissed his unseen wife. “We haven’t got nothin’ to spare for beggars. Or is she a whore? Go make your coin elsewhere.”

“Not a whore,” said Flora, hastily. “I’m a- ” she lowered her voice, glancing over her shoulder. “ - a  _ healer.  _ I heard someone coughing here. Can I help?” 

Another face appeared, alongside the man. It was pinched and hollow-eyed; the vestiges of a once-comfortable life now barely evident. 

“An apothecary? We’ve no money for tinctures. My brother’s fate is in the hands of the Maker.” 

The woman’s eyes slid to the side. Flora followed her gaze, and realised with a start that she had passed her patient: a slumped, white-lipped figure had been relegated to outside the tent. He lay on the cold mud alongside the canvas, shivering far more than the mild night warranted. Ice-crystals had frozen to his chin, the skin below red and raw. 

“Not a ‘pothecary,” Flora breathed, lowering her voice. Darting a swift glance about her for guards - the coast was clear - she opened her palm in the darkness. The fine vessels beneath the skin lit up like golden thread; her nails gleaming. 

The man recoiled in horror, his mouth contorting. Before he could yell out, his wife dug a sharp elbow into his ribs. 

“Shut up, fool!” Her taut stare returned to Flora. “You’re a mender?”

She nodded, hopefully. The woman’s eyes narrowed. 

“We can’t pay you nothin’.”

“I don’t take payment,” Flora replied hastily. “I never have. Please, just let me help? I can’t sleep until I do somethin’.” 

“Aye, alright.” The corners of the woman’s mouth pulled tighter and she gave an abrupt nod. “He’s round there. But if you ask for coin after, we’re callin’ the guard.”

Flora had begun to move before the woman finished speaking, elbowing off the cloak to give her hands free reign. The sick man barely registered her presence; his frosted eyes staring unseeing at the clouded skies. From the cold rattle of his breath, the frostcough had sunk deep into his lungs. She knelt beside him, feeling the distinctive, comforting prickle of her magic swell in the back of her throat. One misted eye opened and tried to focus on her, the pupil drifting around aimlessly. A croak came from the throat as the man tried to speak, but the attempt at a word turned into a hacking cough. Flora did not flinch as flecks of sputum landed on her face; she knew that they would become harmless water the moment that they made contact with her skin. 

“Who- ” he managed after a moment, the query a painful rasp. “Who -  _ you.” _

He was in his middle years, though the sickness made him appear a decade older. His clothing was torn, showing swathes of greyish skin. 

“My name is Flaaa- ” Flora trailed off, remembering that Loghain had named all surviving Wardens as fugitives. She decided to err on the side of caution.  _ “ - Flan _ .”

She was not sure whether Flan was actually a real name - she had a suspicion that it might be a type of dessert - but, having committed, ploughed on regardless.

“I’ve come to fix you,” she breathed, dropping to her knees in the cold mud. “Keep still.”

There were a dozen theories about how the frostcough managed to spread so swiftly amongst groups of people. Fishermen blamed a change in climate, priestesses suggested that it was divine punishment, apothecaries postulated an imbalance of humour. Scholars in the Orlesian universities were confident that it was transmitted through polluted air, while their Minrathous rivals insisted that the cause was tainted water. For Flora, the frostcough was an old enemy: it returned to Herring every winter without fail. She had no idea what caused it - such theorising was above her intellectual capability, and her spirits had always proven elusive on the true cause of disease. Still, it was the first sickness that she had learnt how to cure: imperfectly at age six, improving by seven, and efficiently by eight. 

Now, kneeling on the muddy ground, Flora ran a quick eye over her patient. The blue-tinged lips, the saliva frozen to the chin, the hoarse bark all indicated frostcough. Still, a good healer never made assumptions - one of the first lessons that Compassion had taught her - and she let her gaze sink below the surface of his skin. As she had suspected, the hollow pink caverns of his lungs were full of cobwebbed frost. 

_ Ooh, that’s a chilly pair of air-bags. _

** _We’ve been over this, _ ** snarled her general-spirit.  ** _You are a child no more: use their proper names. _ **

_ Fine,  _ thought Flora sulkily as she lowered her mouth to the man’s frozen lips.  _ Lungs.  _

He was so startled that he made no protest; his limbs rigid with shock. Flora, conversely, felt the day’s tension drain from her body, seeping into a puddle at her feet. She was never more content than when she was healing; her ability to shield was merely a secondary skill.

_ This is where I’m meant to be,  _ she thought to herself happily, exhaling her gilded breath into the startled man’s throat.  _ I’m not meant for the battlefield. I’m meant to be in the infirmary. I’m a mender. Let someone else do the fighting.  _

Flora could taste the sour cling of the frostcough on her tongue, melting away into harmless water. Letting her gaze slip beneath the skin once again, she could see the gleaming miasma of her breath flooding into the man’s polluted lungs; chasing the disease down each tiny crevasse and curlicue. She exhaled three more times, feeling warmth return to the man’s clammy flesh by slow inches. By the third breath, his pupils had lost their clouded vagueness and his lips had found a more human colour. 

Once the man had also regained his senses, he focused more clearly on the face hovering above him. Flora, recognising the instinctive covetousness of the expression, sat back on her heels out of temptation’s way; wiping her hands on her knees. 

“There,” she said, swallowing the last of her magic before it could spill from her lips. “You’re mended. Do you feel better now?”

The man put a hand to his mouth, touching the fresh pink skin. Wonder crossed his face, and for the briefest moment he set aside his own prejudices to marvel at the rapidity od his recovery. 

“You have my thanks,” he said, astonished by the clarity of his restored throat. “My lady Flan.” 

“Eh?” said Flora, who had forgotten about her hastily assumed alias. 

The woman had crawled from the tent to eye her brother with mild incredulity. 

“By Andraste,” she said, glancing swiftly at Flora. “You look healthier than you ever did before you took sick. I’m still not payin’ you nowt.”

This last part was directed at Flora, who was pulling her cloak back over her head.

“I’ve never took pay,” came a muffled voice from within the cloak. “But I have to say something.”

The woman and her brother both eyed her with matching suspicion. Now that he had been healed and Flora’s purpose fulfilled; the sooner she was on her way, the better. A mage roaming about by cover of night, young and unsupervised, was naturally a cause for concern. 

Flora paused until she was sure that she had their attention; her pale eyes moving from one to the other. 

“Please,” she said, very slowly so that they heard every word. “Please, you have to leave Lothering in the morning. The Darkspawn are coming this way and… and they’ll destroy everything. There won’t be a town left once they’ve passed through it.” 

Neither of them said anything, though the woman pressed her lips together more tightly. 

_ Can I say anything else?  _ Flora thought, desperately.  _ To try and persuade them. _

** _It is their choice to act. _ **

_ I’m not eloquent enough. I’m not good at convincing people.  _

** _You spoke the truth. _ **

“You’ll leave, won’t you?”

Flora realised that they would not give her an answer; that the woman was already distracted by the new pink skin covering her brother’s chin. It was clear that they no longer desired her presence. Flora knew better than to expect gratitude, but she did not want to leave until they had confirmed their plans to depart. Unfortunately, they made no such commitment. The woman mumbled what might have been a  _ thank you,  _ then turned her attention to her mended brother and told him promptly not to expect his old bedroll back. Flora hovered for a moment more, but it was clear that she was no longer wanted. Reluctantly, she made her way back to the road, keeping her ears open for the next barking cough.

Over the next candle-length she made her way covertly around the refugee camp, avoiding the guards and offering her services wherever she heard the frostcough’s distinctive rasp. To her dismay, not everybody accepted her assistance - they would rather take their chances with homemade peacebloom tinctures then with a mage - and those that did still gazed at her with raw misgiving. She healed three children belonging to a weary widow; an old man who appeared near death’s door even after he had been healed; a shifty-eyed dwarf travelling alone with a rustling pack that he clung to even as she was healing him. 

The paler of the two moons had ventured out from behind its obscuring shroud, illuminating the tents with a sheen like spilled milk. As the cloud overhead dissipated, the temperature dropped, the evening drizzle clung to the canvas and stuck fast there as frost. Flora found herself growing tired; the dawn start, the bandit attack and the unwelcome revelation in the Chantry had made for an exhausting day. Still, she forced down her tiredness like an unpleasant meal and set out in search of any remaining patients. 

Two guards passed her by on the main track, muttering in low voices to each other. Flora hunched in on herself and wished that she had Morrigan’s ability to transform into something innocuous. To hide her gleaming nails, she curled her fingers right into her palms. Fortunately, they were too preoccupied with listening out for the Chantry bell that would announce the end of their patrol, and did not notice the figure skulking at the fence.

Yawning, Flora rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve and wondered whether to return to the tavern. She had hunted down each rasping back and offered her services; everywhere she went, she warned -  _ the Darkspawn are coming this way. You have to leave.  _ Some paid heed to her plea, others replied with a curt dismissal. 

An irate flicker of conversation nearby drew her attention. Four people - all with the same dark hair, long noses and intense dark stares, were gathered about a smouldering bundle of logs. The eldest - her face scoured with weariness and resignation - was listening to her two sons argue.

“Don’t be such a nug-head, Gat,” complained the younger, prodding life back into the smoking fire. “There’s no way that two of us could have defended the house from Darkspawn.”

_ “Two  _ of you?” interrupted the daughter, her neck looped with a red handkerchief. “Excuse me, but are you forgetting what I  _ am?  _ I’m  _ more _ than capable of- ”

All three of them went to silence her; the boy who had berated his brother jabbed her with a reproving elbow. 

“Shut  _ up,  _ Beth, d’you want to bring down the garrison on us?” 

The elder son’s face was set into a scowl, his mouth curling behind a youthful attempt at a beard.

“I could take the Darkspawn,” he said, scornfully. “I’ve got our grandfather’s blade, it just needs sharpening. Are you afraid of a few mindless Hurlocks, Carver? They’re so stupid, you push them and they start going in circles.”

The argumentative dynamic of the family reminded Flora of Herring. This gave her the confidence to insert herself into their conversation, shuffling forwards with the hem of the grey cloak trailing in the mud.

“Not during a Blight,” she said, remembering what Duncan had told her as she turned her earnest gaze on the eldest son. “They ain’t like that during a Blight. They’ve got the Archdemon telling ‘em what to do. It gives them purpose.” 

The family stared at her and their expressions were not welcoming. The younger son’s expression tautened, eyes narrowing. 

“Who are you?”

Flora had already forgotten the alias that she had given to the first family, and so pretended that she did not hear the question. Instead, she pushed back the hood of the cloak and summoned her most persuasive tone of voice. 

“The Darkspawn- ”

“Fel take the Darkspawn,” the elder son interrupted with a smile, his entire demeanour shifting. “We haven’t been formally introduced. My name is Garrett Hawke, and I’m  _ delighted  _ to meet you.”

Flora ground her teeth in frustration. The young man’s mother and sister bore equally exasperated expressions; the daughter lifted her eyes heavenwards with a small sigh. 

“You really can’t help it, can you?” hissed the junior son, a shock of dark hair falling across his forehead. “Too busy chasing girls to think about anything else. What do you think will happen when we get to Kirkwall?”

“Lots of pretty girls in Kirkwall,” retorted Garrett Hawke easily, taking sly pleasure in goading his younger brother. “I look forward to meeting them.” 

As the brothers began to argue once again, Flora decided to take her leave. She was disheartened by how few of the refugees had paid heed to her warning. They were reluctant to acknowledge that their dire situation could become even worse; as far as they were concerned they had reached a settlement, and the Darkspawn never came close to civilisation. 

Retreating to the main road, Flora set her face towards the town. The Chantry was visible even at a half-mile’s distance; gleaming from within like a vast lantern. Her mind seemed to be working at half its usual pace, slowed by the leaden chains of exhaustion. Eager to slump facedown on the bed’s baseboard within their chamber, she took the first step towards the barricade. 

“Mage?” A thin, tentative voice came wending out of the shadow like a skein of morning mist. “Mage, did you…. did you say that you were a healer?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: OK so I’ve split this chapter in two because it was 4000 words already! So this is the first bit of Flora healing the Lothering refugees. I changed it to a frostcough epidemic rather than just random illnesses. I also wanted to emphasise how strongly she views herself as a healer first and a shield-mage second; she very much thinks that her place is not on the battlefield! Developed the Hawke cameo too! A clue to Flora‘s ‘general spirit’ (aka valour) identity in this chapter too


	29. Two More Mendings

Flora turned, stifling a yawn with the loose grey wool of her sleeve. The campfires that dotted the refugee camp had died down to embers and ash for want of fuel; Lothering was surrounded by a sea of shadow and it was difficult to discern the features of the man standing a few yards away. Still, a lack of light had never unduly worried her. Relatively certain that the slender silhouette did not belong to a guard, Flora opened her palm. A pale gold radiance, the colour of lemon-flesh, drifted upwards, spilling light over their faces. Her nails had grown a quarter-inch over the course of the night’s mending. 

As she had guessed, he was an elf; with a slender body made up of sharp, ascetic angles. There were two violet caverns beneath his eyes, and he stood hunched like a defeated man. 

“I’m a mender,” she agreed, grinding the tiredness from her eyes with her fists as Compassion gave a hum of approval. “How can I help you?” 

“Please,” he said, so firm in his belief that she would need convincing that he had not heard her query. “I beg you. We need a healer. We have no coin, but I will find a way to repay you -  _ somehow-  _ ”

Alarmed, Flora extended a hand to stop him, palm up in supplication. 

“I’m  _ going  _ to help,” she replied, earnestly. “I don’t take no payment. What can I do?”

The elf shot her a look from an oblique eye; half-hopeful and half-incredulous.

“My son.” He ducked behind a canvas tent, retracing his steps along the line of a crumbling wall. “My boy, Jendel.” 

Flora followed him into the darkness, wincing as her knee gave a throb of protest. 

“Does he have the frostcough?”

“No.” The reply came back twisted and sour through the shadow. “No, he was knocked down by some arl’s knight. One of their big destriers, a hoof caught him right in the chest. Man didn’t even  _ stop.”  _

Flora had no idea what a destrier was; though hearing  _ ‘hoof’ _ , she assumed  _ horse _ . 

The elven refugees, separated in flight as they were in everyday life, had made their camp near a freshwater spring. This was a dual-edged blade: the supply of clean water countered by the inescapable boggy ground, more mud than earth. The elves had no tents; they had propped whatever material they could scavenge against the ruined wall to provide a makeshift shelter. 

They approached one such improvised dwelling - an old tavern table, angled against the stone. As they came close, Flora’s mender’s ear, attuned to the sounds of suffering, honed in on a pained rattle of breath. An elven woman emerged, face framed by a matted tangle of hair and eyes swollen shut. 

“Findore, he’s dying,” she said in a heavily accented tongue, the words scraped from her throat. “I know he is. He won’t look at me any more. He knows he’s passing- ”

The boy’s mother faltered as she saw Flora, who was untangling herself impatiently from the cloak. 

“Who - ”

Menders had no time for niceties when there were patients in perhaps a critical condition. Flora sidled past her, hunching down in the cramped wedge of space between the wall and the table. An elven child no more than seven or eight was lying on the bare mud, his chest shuddering as he struggled to draw breath. His tunic was open to his belly, his chest an ugly mass of bruises. The long-lashed eyes were tightly shut and he was shivering in the cold.

“Jendel,” she said, to ascertain whether he was still conscious. Children, in her experience, were more frustrating to heal than adults; they squirmed at the prickling sensation of her magic and tried unsuccessfully to grab the gilded mist in their fists. Still, she had been treating them since she was a child herself, and had collected a sleeve-full of distracting tricks.

The elven boy opened a single dark eye and gazed at her; the pain naked. Flora rested her fingers against his clammy forehead, biting back a sudden flash of anger at the knight who had not stopped. She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue even as her healer’s gaze slipped beneath the mottled skin. Four of the boy’s delicate ribs had been cracked; the lungs beneath them on the verge of collapsing.

“Help, help,” she breathed, keeping the startled child’s attention by blowing out her cheeks. “I’m a fish, I’ve been stolen from the sea, blub blub blub.”

The child gaped up at her in confusion, the corner of his mouth twitching involuntarily. Moonlight painted his pained face with silver stripes: his flesh was as cold as a week-old offering. Flora could hear his parents exchanging urgent snatches of conversation; the woman clearly thought her mad. 

“I need air, blub blub,” she continued, rolling her eyes tragically. “Help me, help me. Open your mouth as WIDE as you can.”

Flora opened her own mouth, flapping her hands beside her cheeks like gills. The astonished little boy copied her; she seized the moment and ducked forward. Covering his mouth and pinching his nose to make sure none of her magic could escape, she exhaled from the bottom of her belly; forcing every drifting curlicue of gilded mist down her patient’s throat. As the magic blossomed inside the boy’s shrivelling lungs, she sat up and began to work her fingers across his patchwork chest; orchestrating the broken ribs in small movements until they had clenched back together. Aware that the last time she had mended a broken bone - her own knee - she had done a poor job, she took especial care. 

_ I’m doing a good job now, aren’t I? _

** _I suppose, _ ** replied her general-spirit reluctantly, while Compassion sighed in quiet approval. 

At last Flora sat back on her heels, bumping her head against the sloping wood overhead. The elven boy opened his eyes and gazed at her; then spoke several words in a lilting tongue that she did not recognise. The bruising had melted from his chest like candle wax; blurring into pale pink as the skin renewed itself. Flora stifled a yawn as she patted the boy gently on the head. 

“All better,” she said, unsure if he could understand her. “Thank you for keepin’ so still for me.” 

Impulsively, she then reached behind her for her discarded cloak, draping the grey wool across the child’s slender body. He clutched the fabric with little, grubby nailed fingers, still staring at her. Flora waved at him, then inched herself inelegantly backwards, her hands and knees coated with mud. The soft, fresh growth of her nails had already broken off; she had added three inches to her hair that night alone. The additional volume was threatening to break free of the knot perched precariously on top of her head. 

The man and his mate, who had watched with increasing incredulity, met Flora as she clambered upright. The woman murmured in her husband’s ear, he cleared his throat and then offered forth an intricately woven silver bracelet. 

“Please, take this as payment. You have saved the life of our son.” 

Flora put her hands behind her back, hunching her shoulders against the bite of the wind.

“I don’t take payment,” she said, then had an idea. “But… but you  _ can  _ do this for me _ . _ ”

They looked at her.

_ “Leave.”  _ Flora continued, the words tangling together in her urgency to speak them. “Leave  _ tomorrow _ , don’t delay any more. Please. I don’t know what else to say to people. The Darkspawn are going to come here and… and people aren’t listening to me.”

She trailed off, suddenly miserable. It was as though she could see the knight’s destrier charging towards the little elven boy; but when she tried to snatch him out of harm’s way, she found that her feet were bogged down in the mud. The boy’s father glanced swiftly at his partner; they exchanged a few words in their unfamiliar dialect. To Flora’s relief, the elf ducked his head in agreement. 

“We’ll head east at dawn,” he said, folding an arm around the boy as he crawled from beneath the table. The grey cloak dwarfed the child, tumbling in pleated folds onto the damp ground. 

“You will?” Flora’s face lit up in spite of her bone-weariness. “Really?”

“Yes. My mate says that anyone who has the aid of the spirits ought to be heeded.” 

If she had not been a Herring girl - Herring girls  _ never  _ cried in public - Flora could have wept. Instead, she took a deep gulp of cold air and nodded. This proved a bad decision: several ropes of hair escaped from the knot and fell beyond her shoulders. 

She took her leave before they could offer her any more of their scant possessions, waving goodbye to the little boy as he eyed her with wary curiosity. 

A curious moon had emerged fully from behind the cloud now; filling the channels between the scattered tents with a glinting grey light. Without any muffling blanket, the air was crisp and cold as the first bite of an apple. Flora tucked her shirt more tightly into her breeches and rolled down the sleeves, winding her fingers into the fraying linen. The wooden barricade ringing the town was only yards ahead; to her relief, it was still unguarded. 

_ Bedtime,  _ she thought to herself, yawning.  _ I can sleep now. I’ve done something to-  _

A groan rose from the tangle of shadow to her left, low and anguished. It was followed by a murmured reassurance; cut through by another guttural sob. 

“Hush, lad. Hush.”

“He’s poisoned, captain.” A third voice entered the fray, thin and urgent. “He’ll spread it to us all.”

“The taint don’t work like that.” 

“How do  _ you  _ know?” The response was agitated. “He could be infecting us  _ right now _ !” 

Thrusting thoughts of bed from her mind, Flora turned away from the barricade, pressing the soft, jutting lengths of her nails against her palm to snap them. Gulping down several more mouthfuls of air to wake herself up, she approached the cart that obscured the source of the noise. The dull gleam of metal beyond the wagon made her slow her pace; the dozen men gathered around the fire were no ordinary refugees. They were soldiers, surrounded by discarded armour that had seen recent conflict. A tattered forest green pennant hung from the cart, torn nearly in two. 

Hidden by shadow, Flora thought how young most of them looked: this battered fragment of Cailan’s army. She supposed that they must have been caught up in some violence during the retreat.

_ Ooh,  _ she thought, suddenly furious as her fingers dug into the edge of the wagon.  _ These are soldiers who didn’t go to help Duncan and the other Wardens. These are the men who abandoned him!  _

** _Think with your head and not your heart._ **

_ I suppose they were just following the instructions of General Mac Tir. Oh, it’s going to be odd now that there are two generals in my life. What should I call him so I don’t mix you up in my head? _

** _One of us is a six-hundred year old spirit of Valour residing in the Fade, _ ** retorted her general, testily. ** _ The other is not._ **

But Flora had stopped listening: she had spotted her patient. He was still a youth, perhaps even younger than her, naked from the waist up and kneeling with his head in his hands. He was rocking back and forth as though his mind was gone; the pain so intense that it had driven out all reason. The slender boniness of his back was exposed: a pulsating wound driven between the shoulder blades. Black veins radiated from the seething flesh, down the length of his spine and out towards each arm. The other soldiers were reluctant to look at him; their fingers straying to the hilts of their blades as they thought of their own solutions. 

_ His wound is blighted,  _ she thought, recalling a soldier lying before the front gate of Ostagar with his chest opened up.  _ I remember this. _

** _Yes, _ ** replied her general, speaking on behalf of voiceless, ancient Compassion.  ** _You recall how to withdraw the taint?_ **

Flora felt a prod of melancholy in her belly. The memory stood out with such salinated clarity that she brought her fingers to her mouth in reminiscence. 

_ Yes,  _ she replied, wistfully.  _ Like what I did for Duncan.  _

** _Pining over your lost Rivaini will not mend this man any quicker. _ **

It took her a few moments to pluck up the courage to approach the group of soldiers; although they were not Templars, and there was no reason to assume that they could identify her as a Warden. Eventually - after the third huff of frustration from her general - Flora lifted her chin and strode out from behind the wagon. 

“Evenin’,” she announced to the audience of startled soldiers, resorting to northern bluntness. “I’m going to heal this man. ‘Scuse me.” 

It was difficult to tell whether the men were more astonished by the girl’s startling looks or her candid admission of magehood. Still, her tactic of surprise worked: no one made any motion to stop her as she crossed the space between them. The only soldier who had not gaped at her in astonishment was the injured youth; who was groaning softly with his face pressed into his palms. 

Flora knelt behind him, feeling waves of tiredness lapping at her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, suddenly anxious.

_ Am I too sleepy to heal?  _

** _No. If you can breathe, you can cast. _ **

This was one of the very first lessons that her spirits had taught her; one that they had repeated over and over until it was branded in her consciousness.

_ If I can breathe, I can cast. Let nothing take my air. If someone puts their fingers around my throat and squeezes, or if I fall into water and open my mouth, I may as well have no magic at all.  _

** _Focus. _ **

Ignoring the murmuring of the soldiers, half-aware that they were drawing in around her and yet secure in the knowledge that her spirits would shield her from any sudden advance; Flora turned her attention to the youth’s naked back. The hard ridge of his spine stuck out like a lizard’s frill, knobbled and oddly vulnerable. The flesh was torn just below his shoulder; a black mass pulsating within the raw wound. Its dark veins expanded outwards in an arterial spiderweb to cover the pallid skin. 

_ Inhale death. Exhale life. _

** _You remember how._ **

_ Mm.  _

Recalling that the first few mouthfuls of the taint brought on a dizzying nausea, Flora took several breaths to steady herself. She then ducked her head, swift enough to overcome the body’s natural recoil when faced with raw decay. Planting her lips on the open wound, Flora took a deep, deliberate gulp of air. Her mouth was immediately flooded with the sweet, rotten odour of the taint: her belly lurched in horror. 

Fortunately it took only seconds for her body to neutralise the taint; breaking it down into harmless biological compounds. Swallowing the remnants; she exhaled from the bottom of her lungs, feeling the gilded mist surge over her tongue like a wash of cool water. 

** _Just breathe._ **

After eight breaths, the dark veins of corruption had faded to faint violet lines; the youth’s whimpers died in his throat. He kept very still, aware of Flora’s presence but unable to see her, or what she was doing. After twelve breaths, the veins had vanished entirely. Only the pulsating mass remained, stretching out sickly tendrils into the youth’s opened flesh. Flora impulsively dug her fingers into the heart of the dark matter as she leaned down for a final time; feeling vital energy leaking from beneath her nails. The pollution melted away like sea foam, clear water running down her fingers. 

“Maker’s Breath,” said one soldier, his voice tinged with shock. “Look at that.”

“The taint’s gone. By Andraste.”

Whispers rustled around her like autumn leaves crushed underfoot. Flora stifled a yawn, stopping herself just in time from rubbing her eyes with her hands. The youth’s cleansed wound had taken a half-dozen heartbeats to mend; now only the faintest smear of pink remained to commemorate the blighted injury. 

Inhaling the taint had reminded Flora of the dozen times that she had drawn the foul miasma from Duncan. The sadness was like a small pebble within the hollows of her heart; rattling with each beat. There was a discarded waterskin nearby: she rinsed her mouth and sluiced off her hands as the soldiers spoke loudly around her. She paid no attention to their conversation - the youth had clambered to his feet and was trying to peer over his own shoulder - until a low voice cut through the incredulous babble. 

“I never went up to the fortress at Ostagar,” mused the captain, curiosity and accusation twining through each word. “But I knew a man that did. He came back talking about a sight he saw up there. Could hardly believe it, even then.”

Flora looked at him, a cord of anxiety starting to knot itself in her belly. The bearded captain gazed back at her steadily, knowing eyes moving across the fine-hewn features of her face.

“A man had been attacked by the Darkspawn. Chest clawed apart; and not only that, but the wound blighted too. They’d brought him back but there was nowt t’be done. They were calling a priestess for the rites when… along comes this girl.”

** _Keep your calm._ **

_ I am calm. _

“A girl with wine-red hair,” his eyes lifted to the untidy bundle atop her head. “And a face to make a man lose his balance. A mage. One of the Warden-Commander’s newest recruits.” 

Flora looked down at her cold, damp fingers. She wondered how long it would take them to find her if she scuttled off into the warren of tents and campfires. 

“She put her lips to the lad’s wound and  _ breathed  _ the taint out of it. No staff; no spells. Just her mouth, and her hands. He said it was the weirdest thing he’d ever seen.”

_ Weird! It ain’t weird. It’s beautiful. Why does everyone call my magic weird?  _

** _Stay focused! _ **

“And then the man was mended.” 

The captain looked at her, then across at the youth she had healed. He was laughing, pulling a tunic over his head with ease, accepting a bottle of ale. Slowly, the lined and clever eyes swung back across to Flora.

“You know, lass, General Mac Tir decried the old Order as traitors,” he said conversationally, as though they were discussing the weather, or the price of grain. “He put out a bounty for any Warden that escaped Ostagar.” 

Flora met his stare with her own pale, cold, unblinking gaze. She could feel her magic webbing between her fingers, throbbing in her palms; not the mending magic this time, but the only other thing that she could do.

_ One trick pony. _

“I wonder how much he’d pay for the Warden-Commander’s bedwarmer herself?” The captain picked at his teeth. “My men and I are in sore need of coin.” 

** _Shield yourself and run. _ **

_ No, no, wait a minute. He don’t look like a man who wants to drown a cat. _

** _?!_ **

_ He was in the valley. He knows that Loghain Mac Tir called for a retreat before they’d even entered the fray.  _

Then the captain sighed and stuck out his fist for an ale; a passing underling thrust a bottle into his hand. Tugging out the cork, he drained half of the clouded liquid in a long, gulping draw. Flora watched him without speaking, feeling her hair collapse around her shoulders.

“Ah,” he said roughly as the bottle lowered, his voice made hoarse by the sourness of the liquor. “Get out of here, lass. I won’t say nothing, and these fools are none the wiser.”

Flora did not need telling twice. The tiredness swelled as she clambered to her feet, relief mingling with a great yawn that began in her belly. As she reached the wagon, she turned around; catching another glimpse of the captain in the firelight.

“You… you ought to go,” she mumbled, her words blurring in her throat. “Leave, tomorrow. Your general lied, there  _ is  _ a Blight. The Darkspawn are coming.” 

The captain looked at her, his lips pulling taut at the corners. If Flora had been standing closer, she might have glimpsed a flicker of resignation in the well of his pupils.

“Aye,” he said at last, a shoulder jerking in a shrug. “We’ll see. Now  _ git _ , before I change my mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I know I’ve spent a lot of time in Lothering but its loss becomes such a huge motivation for Flora later on that I wanted to emphasise it more now! I also wanted to bring up Flora’s main weakness: that if her air supply is restricted in some way, like if she’s underwater or if someone puts something around her neck, she can’t summon her magic!


	30. The Qunari

Flora made her way through the spaces between tents, turning her face away from the campfires to avoid attracting attention. The sighs and sorrows of the refugees had not ceased with the sunset. Sleep was a luxury for those with a hearth, a roof and a lockable door. Resting the eyes for too long amongst the desperate was a sure way to wake with fewer possessions than one had begun the night with. Weary figures sat hunched beside their dying fires; children fidgeted in the arms of their parents.

Nobody seemed as though they would be packing up and leaving with the advent of dawn. Flora had to resist the urge to run around the tents, bellowing  _ the Darkspawn are coming! The Darkspawn are coming! You have to leave! _

Yet her knee would not tolerate such frenzied activity: the joint was already radiating sharp needles of pain. Flora felt melancholy settle on her like a shroud; dwarfing any fulfilment she had gained from her previous mending.

_ Maybe I should go round all the tents again and try to persuade them to leave.  _

** _No._ **

_ But -  _

** _You have done all that you can. _ **

Flora crept around the makeshift dwelling belonging to the family with the arguing sons. As she sidled past, the arcane prickled on her tongue like smoke from a distant fire. She wondered which of them was the mage, then recalled what the dark-haired girl had said:  _ are you forgetting what I am?  _

Tents and fence posts became menacing in the absence of light; their silhouettes elongated into the unfamiliar. Flora did not dare ignite her palms lest she attract unwelcome attention. She was uncomfortably aware that her position as a mage and as a Warden was doubly compromising. More worrying still was the knowledge that Loghain’s captain had correctly identified her as both. Flora wondered if she ought to have lied to him about being a Warden. She felt as though she had entered uncharted territory; where a single misstep could lead to catastrophe.

_ The world is so confusing now,  _ she thought, miserably.  _ I thought that maybe I was starting to understand it. But Ostagar changed everything.  _

Suddenly, Flora wanted nothing more than to return to the company of her brother-warden and let the low rumble of his breath soothe her to sleep. Ever since she had been taken from the Circle, his snoring had been one of the few certainties in her life: a nightly constant that she now found it difficult to sleep without. 

Lothering, part obscured by its hasty barricade, rose before her. The buildings seemed to be huddled together for protection, thin veins of smoke blown into a cold and clear sky. The Chantry crested the hill like a watchful sentry ; the twin flame-lit windows on its facade gleamed a dull orange. Flora felt a brief flicker of relief - such a squat and authoritative building was surely filled with capable people who would know what to do if the Darkspawn horde appeared on the horizon? The respite was swiftly overcome with an irrational foreboding as she realised that the windows were facing the wrong direction; to the east, away from Ostagar.

_ Stop worrying,  _ Flora told herself sternly, yawning as she crept through the gap in the barricade.  _ There’s only a few more hours until dawn. You need to sleep.  _

The moment that her boot crossed the town threshold, a gloved hand came down on her shoulder.

“Got her!” 

“Ha!” 

The voices were higher than usual, nervousness mingled with the excitement.

“Did you think you could run around using  _ magic  _ all night and escape our attention?” came the triumphant demand. “An apostate, right under our noses!”

“ARGH,” said Flora to the heavens, pulling at her face in frustration. “Really? REALLY?! Why didn’t you  _ warn me?!” _

One wide-eyed guard nudged another, metal rustling. 

“See how she communicates with her unseen demons! Maker preserve us, we’ve had a narrow escape.” 

“I’m not an apostate,” said Flora as she was shunted across the damp earth; looking longingly over her shoulder at the rapidly diminishing tavern. 

“Where’s your Templar chaperone, then?” hissed the captain of the garrison, who seemed to have roused most of his men to assist in her apprehension. “Knot that rope nice and tight, boys.”

“Um,” said Flora, uncertain whether Alistair counted or not. “In bed. Ooh, that ain’t a good knot. I would redo it.”

The younger of the guards began to undo the knot - slightly mesmerised by her light-eyed beauty - before being brutally elbowed in the gut by a senior officer.

“Idiot! No Templar would  _ sleep _ while escortin’ a mage. Stop with the lies! Once you’ve got her in the cage, chain her up. Can’t be taking chances.”

_ Why didn’t you warn me?  _ Flora repeated inwardly, stumbling as she was tugged across the uneven mud. The tavern, her bed and her snoring brother-warden were growing more distant by the moment; what appeared to be the entirety of tbe Lothering garrison were hauling her towards an isolated corner of town. 

** _What? _ ** Her spirits were elusive.

_ WARN me that the patrol was near. You’ve warned me before about things. Why not now?!  _

** _Hm. _ **

_ I just want to go to bed!  _

** _This is important._ **

_ How?  _ raged Flora, petulant as a child as she was manhandled towards a row of iron cages standing near a half-collapsed gallows. She was so preoccupied with her own misery that she paid little attention to her surroundings.

** _You said that you wanted allies._ **

_ I WANT SLEE-  _

Flora’s reply was interrupted as she was shoved inelegantly inside one of the rusting prisons; a lopsided structure that had seen better days. Several chains were tightened around her, the cold metal links digging through the thin fabric of her shirt. The guards responsible for her capture seemed reluctant to look straight at her, and showed visible relief when the door of the cage was shut fast. Their faces were pale smudges of flesh against the shadows; fingers touching their hilts for reassurance.

“The Templars will be back by noon,” their senior told her, keeping a cautious few yards between himself and the bars. “Then they’ll deal with you.” 

“The Darkspawn are coming,” replied Flora, brow furrowed. The ropes and chains had been wrapped around her with nervous haste; crossing each other around her body so that her arms were pinned at her sides. “You need to  _ evacuate _ everyone by noon.”

The Lothering vanguard turned their backs, torches leaving faint orange streaks in their wake. Flora watched as they were swallowed by the shadow, resisting the urge to screech her irritation into the gloom like a Herring fishwife. Most of her ire was reserved for her spirits, who  _ could  _ have warned her, but - for some obscure reason - chose not to. She did not appreciate it when they spoke in vagaries that she could not interpret.

_ If I stay in this cage, I’ll get no sleep,  _ she thought sulkily, fingertips tingling as the chains bit into her wrists.  _ I’m knackered. I’d even take that mattress in the tavern now.  _

_ I don’t care if it’s the rules that an unaccompanied mage be locked up if caught. I ain’t following - _

Something caught the corner of Flora’s eye; a mass of darkness that fell in elongated diagonal across the earth before her. It took her a moment to realise that it was not a shadow but a  _ silhouette _ ; originating from a neighbouring cage. The next moment, she heard a low, foreign murmur: the words flowing around and within each other.

_ “Shok cbassit hissra. M’raad hastarit. M’raad itwasit. Maraas shokra Qun.” _

Shuffling within the constricting embrace of the chains, Flora managed to rotate herself a few inches. The next cage came into partial view and her jaw dropped. Unable to stop herself, the word came surging uncontrolled from her throat. 

“Whaaaa- ”

* * *

While Flora had crouched beneath the tilt of a table with a little boy struggling for air before her; half a mile to the north in a tavern bedchamber, her brother-warden woke with a start, tangled in blankets. At first, staring up at the dark wood that spanned the ceiling, Alistair felt mired in confusion:  _ where was the mildewed canvas? the damp patch in the shape of a Mabari?  _

Then he remembered - as he had done each morning since - that the junior Warden tent was no more. It was most likely now only a scrap of canvas twisted around a pole, ravaged by the victorious Darkspawn hordes as they streamed up from the valley below. What few possessions he had owned were most likely scattered in the snow; until some future adventurer decided to brave the ruins of the fallen fortress. 

The hearth had died to gleaming cinders. Alistair reached for the poker and gave the remains of the fire a hopeful prod. They flared for a moment, then subsided into an ash that had the fine, powdery texture of bonemeal. Abandoning the poker, he rolled over with some difficulty - the sprawling length and bulk of his body meant that most of his limbs dangled over the edge of the mattress - and peered up through the gloom to the bed. He could not see the undulation of his sister-warden’s silhouette. 

Assuming that she was face-down on the far side of the bed, Alistair sat up. The baseboard bore nothing but a crumpled blanket and he felt an irrational clench of alarm in his gut. He had grown used to Flora’s sleeping presence; belly down, cheek resting on her folded arms. 

_ She’s just gone to the privy,  _ he told himself, glancing around the bedchamber.  _ She’ll be back in a moment.  _

The cat-Morrigan was asleep, her tail twitching. Alistair averted his gaze with a grimace, eyes falling on the door. Something glinted in the dying hearthlight on the floorboards nearby; for the moment, it went unnoticed. Alistair settled back down against the mattress, ears pricked to hear the scrape of wood against board. No scrape came: the door remained shut.

The young man’s mind returned to their conversation at dinner. 

_ Have you ever kissed anyone?  _

A thoughtful pause, then:  _ I have  _ been _ kissed.  _

It was hard for Alistair to imagine his stoic sister-warden locked in a passionate embrace. Her pale eyes were as cold as glacial meltwater and her beauty was of the unapproachable sort that radiated an aura of warning:  _ look don’t touch.  _ He was relatively certain that she had  _ been kissed  _ by their now-deceased commander. Flora had spent far longer than usual in Duncan’s tent on the eve of the final battle. When he had entered to retrieve her, no residue of mending mist gilded Flora’s lips, but a flush had blossomed in the hollow of her throat. 

Alistair did not know quite how he felt about this. The Rivaini, despite a slow ruination of body and mind by the taint, was the most hot-blooded and vital person that Alistair had ever known. He had clearly managed to coax some ardour from the solemn young mage. Alistair let his thoughts stray down this new, dangerous route for a few moments, then realised with a start that his sister-warden had still not returned. 

Not wishing to be accused of overreacting, Alistair counted to two hundred -  _ one Mabari, two Mabari, three Mabari  _ \- and there was no sign of her; the air preserved exactly as it had been when he had awoken. Morrigan had curled herself back up into a dark knot, one paw stretched across the faded velvet. He remembered what Duncan had said to him a few hours before the massacre in the valley:  _ Flora will keep you safe in battle. You keep her safe in the world; she knows so little of it. _

Alistair sat bolt upright on the mattress, one large hand already stretching for his boots.

“Witch,” he said into the darkness, not caring if he woke her. “Morrigan.”

There came no reply.

_ “Morrigan!” _

A pause, then a ripple of arcane energy rolled across the chamber. By the time that Alistair had clambered to his feet, Morrigan was sprawled languid across the chair; lips pursed. She was twisting one of the slender bones from her hair between her fingers. 

“I presume you wish to know where your simpleton sister-warden has gone.”

Alistair bit back his retort, because he  _ did  _ wish to know, as soon as possible; without getting into an argument. The woman snorted, adjusting the heavy fur hung around her shoulders. The fur had a warm, fleshy scent that crept across the room: as though fresh stripped from the hide. 

“She’s run off back to her beloved Mackerel,” Morrigan informed him, snidely. “The place she keeps talking about. I’m afraid you are all alone.”

Alistair gaped; instinctively wanting to deny such an outlandish claim. He then remembered how originally Flora had  _ only  _ thought about saving Herring from the Blight; the rest of Ferelden came as an afterthought.

“She- ” he began and then trailed off, blinking. “She wouldn’t- ”

Morrigan grimaced, then averted her eyes to the ceiling with a small huff. 

“Well, I am lying for my own amusement,” she admitted, begrudgingly. “‘Tis obvious, surely? Where she has gone?”

Alistair stared at her. His frame seemed too tall and broad at the shoulder for the constrictions of the bedroom; as though it were intended for larger chambers, greater halls. The witch relented, dropping her gaze to his face.

“Surely, your sister-warden is with the sick and wounded masses beyond the town boundary? Remember how she persisted irritatingly on the topic earlier.”

Relief coursed across Alistair’s face; at the same time, he spotted the chamber key gleaming on the floorboards near the door. 

“You’re right,” he said, then, with wry astonishment: “Thank you. I’m going to find her.”

A long-nailed hand waved dismissively through the shadow.  
  


* * *

“- aaaaaat are  _ you?!”  _

Flora realised that her incredulous question might be interpreted as  _ rude  _ by anyone who lacked the coarseness of a northerner. In her defence, the man in the next cage did not seem the type to be easily offended. He stood almost a foot higher than Alistair - who was the tallest man that Flora had seen prior to this moment - and his skin was the dull grey of old ash, stretched taut across a body that seemed to consist entirely of bulging, corded muscle. His head, large and square, bore hair in a series of knotted white skeins. Small, scarlet eyes, like red beetles, peered down at Flora with vague contempt. 

Flora, equally used to receiving stares of derision as she was those of lust, gazed back. She wondered if perhaps it was a dwarf who had been artificially  _ inflated _ by some magic. The chains and ropes wound around her body were limiting her ability to gain a full view of the neighbouring cage. A pulse of magic rippled out from her body like a drop of oil fed into a candle flame. The chains broke apart with a rupture of red steel rings; the ropes tore as though made from parchment. Now, her movement unrestricted, Flora could turn fully towards her silent neighbour. She pressed her face against the bars, sweeping her gaze up and down his formidable height.

The clatter of the fragmented chain against the cage floor had caught the man’s attention. He still had not said a word, but the pupils within the wine-red irises sharpened to a point.

“Are you a dwarf?” breathed an enthralled Flora, wrapping her fingers around the bars of her prison. “Are you  _ two  _ dwarves stacked together?”

There was a prolonged, incredulous silence, followed by: 

“Are you a fool, _ bas-saarebas _ ?”

Flora had been asked this question on countless previous occasions. Her fingers gleamed sufficient to throw light on the man’s unamused expression; his mouth barely moved when he spoke. He had a deep, even voice with little in the way of modulation or inflection, it slid from his throat like the scraping of an old barrel. 

“Just ignorant,” she replied, noticing the additional chains wrapped around the trunklike wrists. “I want to know more. What are you?”

“I am a Sten of the Beresaad, an adherent of the Qun,” the giant man said, clearly hoping that the explanation would be sufficient to sate her curiosity. “Now, may I return - undisturbed - to my meditations? If I am to be consumed by the Darkspawn, I wish to spend my remaining hours in tranquility.”

“The Qun,” said Flora, then her eyes expanded with almost comical swiftness. “You’re a  _ Qunari?”  _

Herring folklore tended to be either depressing or doom-laden; the Qunari featured with regularity in the second sort. The ‘bull-men’, as they were colloquially known, were portrayed as pirates who rampaged across the choppy peaks of the Waking Sea; ravaging and raiding the northern coast. They were the monsters that mothers warned their children about when they grew old enough to understand:  _ behave, or the Qunari will take you east and carve out their prayers on your bones.  _ It was rumoured that there had once been a village between Herring and Skingle, a wealthy little settlement renowned for the quality of its fishhooks. One squalling night, the Qunari had landed their sickleback craft on the beach, crept up the sands and slaughtered every man they could find; seizing the women and children as chattel before putting the village to the torch. Any unfortunate creature who protested was skewered in their chains, or dropped unceremoniously overboard. Flora’s mother had shown her the roots of the buildings once; lines of charred stone half-buried in the sand. 

Now Flora’s shield blossomed instinctively around her; rippling like spilled water. The bars of the cage bowed elegantly outwards until they almost touched the earth: the metal bars splayed as though some vast palm had pressed down on them from above. 

** _Was that necessary? _ ** demanded her general-spirit, buzzing around her skull like a wasp.  ** _He poses no threat to you. _ **

_ He’s a Qunari! A raiding, murdering, pirate!  _

** _You are three hundred miles inland. _ **

_ Is… is that a lot?  _

** _Yes. _ **

Her shield receded like the tide. Flora picked her way gingerly over the fragmented chains and the ruins of the bars, feeling a flash of guilt at how comprehensively she had destroyed her prison. Maintaining a cautious distance, she hovered at the periphery of the Qunari’s cage. He had watched her bend the bars of her enclosure as though they were made from water reeds; but made no comment, nor petitioned for his own freedom.

“Are you a prisoner?” she asked tentatively, her eye travelling from the man’s braided head to his booted foot. He had the remnants of armour, but bore no weapon. She assumed that the guards must have taken it from him; though it was hard to imagine simply  _ taking  _ anything from such a behemoth. 

“I am in a cage,” replied the Qunari, without emotion. “I am quite clearly a prisoner.” 

Flora was reminded oddly of Morrigan; although the witch’s retorts dripped with sarcasm, while the Qunari delivered his with total solemnity. 

“Why are you a prisoner?” she continued, glancing over her shoulder to check that the guards were still on patrol. “The Darkspawn will be here soon. Being in a cage won’t save you.” 

The Qunari did not hesitate, his small, red eyes fixed unblinking on her.

“I murdered a family,” he said, without emotion. “The local authority does not know what to do with me, so they have put me in this cage while they procrastinate.” 

** _Don’t run away. _ **

_He’s a murderer!_ _I don’t associate with murderers._

** _You consorted with Duncan Rivaini. Extensively._ **

Flora hesitated, fingers twisting in her linen hem. The Qunari watched her, still and dispassionate.

_ Duncan killed someone? _

** _He was conscripted into the Wardens as a result._ **

She bit her lip. Her spirits did not often share such information with her. Their knowledge - vast and incomprehensible - was like a veiled lantern that they rarely allowed her to glimpse.

_ But a family, though.  _

** _You needed allies. Here is one. _ **

_ You mean - ask him to join us?!  _

** _Yes. _ **

The wind bit at the exposed parts of her body: wrists, throat, face. Flora pulled the fraying shirt more tightly around herself, wishing fervently that someone senior could instruct her on how to proceed. The more practical part of her mind - in concord with her general-spirit - informed her how useful it would be to have such a companion. There was a bounty on their heads and Morrigan was less than reliable. The emotional part recoiled at the thought of associating with one who admitted so freely to slaughter. 

_ I don’t know what to do. Who’s to say that he would even want to come with us?  _

Before her spirits could reply, a voice cut through the gloom. It was suffused with relief, although mildly accusatory.

“Thank the Maker - I’ve been looking for you for  _ ages.” _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol at Flora’s “WHAT ARE YOU.” Not the most tactful greeting ever!
> 
> I wanted to show how her spirits coerce certain events into happening: by failing to warn her about the guards, she was put in a cage and therefore meets Sten! I also changed the way that she meets Sten because in the original, Morrigan recruits him “off screen” because I was too lazy to write it, lol
> 
> WHAT ARE YOOOOU


	31. The Face In The Sword

Flora felt her brother-warden’s presence like a fishhook tugging at her skin; though by the time that she had sensed him, he was almost at her side. She turned and saw Alistair striding towards her, clad in hastily assembled garments. The alchemy of moonlight had transformed his golden hair into silver, and paled the rich hue of his skin. The crease across his brow deepened when he took in Flora’s untucked shirt and the remnants of her bindings scattered on the earth. She was mid-yawn, sleeves falling to her elbows as she pulled sleepily at her face. 

“Flora,” Alistair hissed, unbuttoning his tunic as he came to a halt beside her. “Where’s your _ cloak? _ It’s the middle of the night, and it’s _ winter.” _

“I ain’t cold, I’m a- ”

_ “Don’t _ say that you’re a Herring girl who doesn’t feel the cold,” he reprimanded, frowning down at her. “It’s not true. _ Everyone _gets cold, even northerners.”

Flora yawned once again instead of replying, rubbing the back of her hand across her eyes. Alistair peered at her for a long moment through the gloom; the reproval writ across his face softening. It had been a careless gesture, but it had caught his attention: the small fingers, the nails freshly bitten. There were still delicate filaments of gold clinging to her palms, like fine blond hairs.

“How many refugees have you healed tonight?” Alistair draped the tunic over her shoulders, knotting the trailing arms together beneath her chin. “You’ve been out ages.”

The sleepy Flora thought for a moment; held up eight fingers, and then four fingers. 

“Not just refugees. A soldier too, with a blighted wound. They got attacked on their way out of the valley.”

She gave him a searching look, her pale irises lacquered by the moonlight. Alistair grimaced, though - for the first time - it was not due to the mention of Ostagar. Instead, his concern lay elsewhere. 

“You ought to rinse your mouth out. Duncan always gave you wine after you healed him, remember?” 

For a moment they were both silent. The ghost of their commander stood between them, as solid and unyielding in death as he had been in life. Flora looked at her feet, fingers twisting in the material of his tunic as it hung around her shoulders. He saw then how tired she was; the violet smudges beneath her eyes and the weary droop of her head. The bundle of hair, knotted so confidently on her crown that morning, had collapsed into a chaotic tumble down her back. 

“Let’s go back to our room,” he said quietly, thinking that she looked like an overhunted Mabari. “There are still a few hours until dawn. You need to sleep, Flora.”

“I can’t let the guards see me,” she mumbled through her sleeve. “They tried to put me in a cage.”

“I can see that,” a wry Alistair observed, glancing at the twisted skeins of metal on the ground. “We’ll have to avoid- _ Maker’s Breath!” _

He had just noticed the behemoth in the next cage; vast enough to fill the entirety of the barred space and standing in total silence, watching them closely. Alistair gaped - he had not seen a Qunari for _ years _\- surveying the giant man from head to booted foot. 

“This is Aspen_ ,” _ said Flora, pulling at Alistair’s sleeve to lower his head and bring his ear level with her mouth. _ “He’s our new companion, but he doesn’t know it yet.” _

Her whisper rested warm against his neck; the words sleepy but sure. Alistair looked once again at the silent giant with the implacable scarlet stare, astounded at the sheer incongruity of a Qunari within the nondescript little town of Lothering. He doubted that the hulk’s name was really _ Aspen. _

“Him? Join us? _ Really?” _

_ “ _Yes,” Flora replied, with solemn certainty. “My spirits told me so.” 

“Hm.” 

She swayed on her feet and Alistair gripped her elbow, realising that she was more than tired: she was _ exhausted _. He made an executive decision and hauled her up; not into his arms, but over his shoulder, like a recalcitrant child. He heard Flora mumble a protest from beneath a tangle of port wine hair, though she lacked the energy for serious opposition.

“I’m not a sack of crabs,” she grumbled, turning her head sideways. “Oof. Hauling me up the beach.”

“I thought you fantasised about being a sea creature.” 

“A fish! Not a _ crab _.” She was scornful.

“We’ll be faster this way.”

Flora yawned again, abandoning her protest. She weighed far less than the burden of his armour and weaponry; Alistair found that he could bear her weight easily. He swung towards the narrow stretch of road that rose on a gentle incline towards the tavern, relying on moonlight and a few persistent lanterns to light the way. From her upturned position, Flora craned her neck until she could see the caged Qunari. 

“We’ll be back for you, Aspen!” she said, pointing a tired, determined finger. “Tomorrow. _ Be ready.” _

The Qunari ignored her. Undeterred, Flora let the side of her face settle against the lower part of Alistair’s back; feeling the coarse weave of linen against her cheek. 

The dawn was still a handful of hours away, but a faint thread of grey had appeared on the horizon. Lothering seemed to be holding an apprehensive breath; the air hung still and silent around the clustered buildings. Frost clung to darkened windows as though something vast and unseen had exhaled wearily across the town. 

Alistair’s ‘sack of crabs’ fell quiet as she was returned to the tavern; he thought that perhaps she had fallen asleep. He kept an eye out for any lurking guard, but met only an old woman limping past with her head shrouded. The young man wondered if he should greet her - or offer his assistance - but she seemed determined to ignore him. 

To Alistair’s relief, the heavy bar on the interior of the tavern door had not been dropped into place. Careful to avoid bumping his cargo’s head against any hard edges, he made his way between the tables and chairs to the stair leading to the upper floor. An elf clad in worn leathers leaned his elbows atop the railing, a bottle of ale balanced precariously beside him. Alistair suddenly realised how their current situation might appear to a stranger. Flora was now snoring on his back, her hair trailing in their wake like strands of seaweed. 

“She’s just tired,” he said hastily as the elf surveyed them, one eyebrow flicking upwards. “It’s been a… long day.” 

The elf made a _ I care not _gesture, returning his attention to his bottle. Alistair strode down the corridor to the end-chamber, conscious of striking each noisy floorboard on the way. Their chamber was much the same as he had left it; the hearth reduced to embers, the moonlight striping the floor in silver. There was no sign of Morrigan in either feline or human form, a circular indent pressed into the faded seat of the chair where she had been curled. The packs were huddled unceremoniously in the far corner. At first, Alistair thought that their lumpen silhouette belonged to a live creature and almost had a heart attack. 

Once he had recovered from his fright, he surveyed the rest of their chamber. It did not even occur to him to deposit the yawning, now woken Flora on the baseboard of the bed and leave her till sunrise. Instead, Alistair let her down gently onto the pallet mattress before the hearth, then went to retrieve his wineskin. He almost fell over a stray cooking pot on his return, biting back a curse. On second thought, he retrieved the offending pot. 

Flora was sitting on the mattress, her drooping head resting against the side of the bedframe. She had mustered the energy to pull off one boot, then given in to a yawn that seemed to take up her whole face. Alistair removed the other, handing her the wineskin and the pot with a stern instruction to rinse out her mouth. While she gargled sleepily, he returned to the dying fire and began a dedicated campaign to coax it back to life, feeding in scraps of tinder from the nearby basket. After several hopeful prods with the poker and judicious addition of kindling, the fire blossomed within the grate. A warm, wavering light spilled across the chamber, accompanied by the slow crack of splitting wood. 

Once he was satisfied that the fire was not going to fail, Alistair manoeuvred his lengthy frame back across the mattress. Flora had slid the wineskin and pot to one side and was biting her nails; showing no inclination to return to the baseboard above. He sat beside her, leaning back against the edge of the bed and exhaling a steady breath. 

“Where’d your cloak go?” he asked, remembering his earlier question.

Flora peered at her feet in the firelight, the woollen socks pulled up over her ankles. They had not borne the days of walking well and several holes had appeared in the seams.

“Gave it away,” she said vaguely, eyeing her exposed little toe. “I told everyone I mended to leave tomorrow. I hope they listen.”

Alistair gazed at her profile from the tail of his eye: the straight, imperious nose, the slant of the cheekbone and the voluptuous swell of the mouth. The young Warden then felt guilty for admiring it. In some inexplicable way, he felt that she was bound to their late commander, and that admiring her was a betrayal of a kind. Then Flora yawned, so wide that it made her lose her balance and she almost toppled sideways. 

Alarmed - he did not want her to hit her head against the dusty floorboards, even if the wound would mend itself afterwards - Alistair reached out. As he gripped Flora’s elbow, he noticed that her fingertips were pink and swollen, as though she had pressed them against the curved wall of a cooking pot. He almost asked her about them, then his better judgement prevailed; her eyes were closing, her head drooping like a flower. Her body was following the lopsided motion; slumping to the side like a child’s toy left unbalanced. He put his arm around her to steady her. 

The fire grew in confidence and volume, consuming a log with vehemence. A crowd of sparks raced each other up the chimney, hot and yellow as ochre flecks from an Orlesian painter’s brush. Flora’s head tipped to the side and came to rest somewhere near his armpit: their height was too disparate for it to rest on his shoulder. Her body fit alongside his like two Nevarran nesting dolls slotting together; his palm still wrapped around her arm. Alistair could feel the heat of her firewarmed skin through her shirt. When he moved his other hand towards the poker, a dark red filament of hair clung to his sleeve. 

After prodding a slithering log into the depths of the fire, he leaned back against the edge of the bed. His sister-warden turned her face into him, her nailbitten fingers curling in the loose fabric of his shirt. Alistair did not move, because he did not want her to move. He decided to stay awake for the few hours that remained in the night. 

Immediately, the young Warden felt a lash of guilt; the heat of his commander’s accusatory stare blistered his conscience. 

_ There was nothing between them, _ he told himself with a sort of nervous defiance, _ or perhaps there _ was _ something, but it was only in its infancy; and now he’s dead. A dead man has no claim on the living. _

_ Anyway, this is harmless. _

His finger moved absentmindedly down her shoulder, tracing the stitching that held the coarse material together. There was a gap in the seam where the thread had slackened; after a moment, Alistair realised that he was touching the bare flesh of her arm and stopped hastily. When he looked up - self-conscious, as though Duncan might be watching them through the Veil - his attention was snared by the gleaming length of his sword. It rested against the hearth, forty inches of freshly oiled steel. Most men would have grasped such a hefty blade with two hands; the scale and power of Alistair’s frame allowed him to wield it in a single grip.

Then he saw a slice of Flora’s face reflected in the polished metal: her throat, a portion of her mouth, the dark lashes of her eye settled against her cheek. He thought that she looked younger when she slept: the structural beauty softened, the haughtiness stripped away to fine bones. He wondered if the Templars at the Circle had guessed her age correctly; then told himself firmly that it did not matter, because she was his friend, and his sister-warden, and nothing more.

“I have a question.”

Morrigan’s voice curled out of the darkness, low and amused. Once he had recovered from his shock, Alistair scowled into the gloom.

“How long have you been spying on us?” he demanded, though in a whisper. “I hate it when you… skulk in corners. It’s so _ sneaky.” _

Alistair could hear the smirk in her responding laugh. He still could not see her, though he could sense that she was nearby. The moon had drifted behind the cloud; the silver stripes decorating the floor had dissolved.

“Are you not going to entertain my question? It is a most _ intriguing _ one.” 

He raised his eyes to the ceiling beams, unwilling to move lest it disturb the girl snoring quietly at his side.

“Fine. What is it? And _ quietly, _or you’ll wake her up.” 

“‘Tis rumoured that Grey Wardens are known for their... _ prowess _ in the bedchamber,” said Morrigan, archly.“Current _ virginal _ company excepted _ , _naturally. My mother had heard good things of Duncan Rivaini, and often regretted that she had never had the chance to…” 

She chortled softly to herself. Alistair felt a vein throbbing in his temple. He was aware of his late commander’s formidable reputation - it had been a perennial, raucous topic of conversation at the Wardens’ fire - but could not see how it was relevant now. He remained silent, watching the sliver of Flora’s sleeping face in the sword.

“Anyway,” Morrigan continued, suppressing a sly smile. “My question is this: are two Wardens allowed to bed _ each other?” _

The air in the room tautened. Alistair felt a sweat break out on his forehead. Praying that his voice emerged steadily - to his relief, it did - he replied: “As far as I’m aware. There’s no rule against it, we aren’t priestesses. Why?”

The witch smirked in the darkness; he could feel her amusement like a thistle against his skin. 

“Why? I’m just curious. After all, the Grey Wardens are legendary within Ferelden. I had heard many stories from my mother, and from the Wilder men.” 

Alistair said nothing, aware that she would pounce on any reply that he gave her and toy with it for her own amusement. He found that his eyes kept returning to the reflection of Flora’s face on the blade. Her lips seemed as though they were moving, but it was a mere trick of the firelight. A flicker of movement caught his eye and he saw Morrigan leaning against the hearth, wrapped in her musky old fur from head to toe. Alistair could have sworn that she had not been there a moment ago.

“She’s very beautiful,” the witch observed begrudgingly, canting her chin towards their slumbering companion. “I suppose that the gods needed to compensate for her simple-mindedness somehow.”

“She’s not simple,”retorted Alistair, with a sudden flash of real anger. “She’s just… eccentric. She sees the world differently. You haven’t seen her magic. It’s… it’s incredible.”

“Hm,” said Morrigan, and he got the sense that she was pleased by his outburst. “Have you not thought about bedding her?”

He spluttered. “She’s my _ sister-warden!” _

“A sister-warden is not a sister.”

Alistair mouthed silently into the firelight, suddenly uncomfortably hot beneath his tunic. He wished desperately that the damned witch would change the subject, or - better yet - that she would _ stop talking. _

“I’m surprised that _ she’s _ still a virgin,” Morrigan continued, ignoring the young Wardens’s silent plea. “Men must have coveted her for years. Although she seems more interested in blasted _ fish _ than anything else; so perhaps ‘tis not that strange. I am not surprised that _ you _ are a virgin, however. It is _ obvious _.”

Alistair let out a low, almost involuntary groan. He wished that he had continued with his Templar training long enough to learn how to _ silence _a mage; although he was unsure whether this prevented them from speaking, or just from spellcasting. The resentment towards Morrigan felt like curdled milk in his belly: he had been looking forward to sitting before the hearth, with a solid roof overhead, a door between them and the world, and - last but not least - his sister-warden snoring at his side. 

Reprieve came in the form of a half-yawned question. 

“What if the guards try and arrest me tomorrow?” mumbled Flora, her face still half-turned into his shirt. “I don’t got time to be put in a cage. I have to persuade Aspen to join us.” 

Alistair wondered how much of the conversation she had heard. She made no comment on it, preoccupied with her own concerns. 

“I won’t let them arrest you again,” he heard himself saying, his fingers gripping the warm flesh of her arm. “I promise, Flo.” 

The witch let out a snort, her gaze gleaming a pale gold in the darkness. Flora smiled - he saw her reflected mouth curve upwards in the length of the sword - and closed her own eyes; her head dropping back against Alistair’s shoulder. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooohhhh things are so busy at the moment so this chapter took a while to finish! We’re putting the apartment on the market so my parents have come from Wales and they’re basically doing all the DIY that we’re too clueless to understand :P I’ve been running errands for them, for things like “grout”, lol
> 
> OK, a few things about this chapter! Firstly, it takes Alistair a while to locate Flora because her spirits are suppressing the taint within her body; so she’s not as easy to pick up on through the usual Warden method of honing in on something with the taint.
> 
> Secondly, the Qunari introduced himself last chapter as “a Sten of the Beresaad,” and Flora misheard it as “Aspen”, haha
> 
> This isn’t the last time we’ll be having this conversation about the relationship between Wardens, either! It’s inspired by a piece of in game banter.
> 
> Anyway I hope you enjoy this little chapter of relationship building!


	32. Ill Tidings From Redcliffe

Dawn arrived sluggishly. A reluctant sun immediately swathed itself in cloud; it promised to be one of those days which never seemed to become fully light. A morning mist thick as pottage swamped Lothering until only the rooftops stuck out, like islands in a murky sea. The refugees who had managed to sleep in their improvised dwellings woke to resentful stares from those who had not; the grim-faced guards resumed their patrol, torches parting the fog. The Chantry bell tolled in an attempt to maintain normalcy:  _ time for the sunrise service. If you cannot attend, then pray for your souls and for the spirit of our murdered king.  _ A dull, sonorous echo rolled down the narrow streets of Lothering; both reverent and reproving. 

The mournful clang of the bell woke Alistair with a start. For a brief, horrifying instant he thought that it was a warning - that the baying Darkspawn hordes had been sighted on the southern horizon. Then, almost immediately, he realised that it was only the regular, rhythmic chime of the dawn service; not the discordant cacophony of invasion. He had spent a decade of his life waking to the same Chantry prayer bell; usually accompanied by a snarl that he was  _ late for church! _

The room materialised in slow focus around him as he roused himself: the walls stained with old smoke, the solid oak of the bedframe at his back, the ashen remnants of the fire in the hearth before him. The sound of people moving around in the tavern below crept up through the gaps in the floorboards, along with the faint scent of hot porridge. 

There was a warmth and a pressure on Alistair’s side that drew his attention next. He looked down to see a dark red head against his chest and narrow shoulders kept close by his own possessive arm. Despite the awkwardness of his position - a six foot and three inch frame, wedged upright against the side of a bed - Alistair could not remember a more restful sleep; and he could only claim three hours of it. The gentle contour of Flora’s body fit so well beneath his arm that they could have been a single entity. 

_ I feel as though I’ve slept a night on a feather bed,  _ he wondered to himself, watching an anemic shaft of sunlight inch across the plaster.  _ Is it due to her mending magic, seeping through her skin? Or is it…  _

_ Is it due to her? _

The young man immediately felt a stab of remorse. He stared into the black ashes in the hearth, and saw Duncan’s reproachful stare. 

“Do you got any blisters that need mending?”

Alistair looked down, jolted. He felt as though a fleeing horse had brushed against him and knocked him off balance.

Flora was awake: she was healing two spots that had blossomed overnight on her chin by pressing a gleaming finger to each one. As he stared at her, she turned her face up to him with a question in her eyes. 

“I - I don’t know,” he said, after a moment. “I don’t think so.”

Flora peered at him, the last of her pimples melting into her skin beneath a grubby-nailed finger. She had clearly made no effort to remove herself from beneath his arm, despite having woken some time prior. 

Then, assuming that he was perplexed by her unusual greeting, she smiled up at him. 

“Morning.”

“Morning,” Alistair managed, in a voice only slightly different from his usual tone. “Aren’t you tired? You only had a few hours of sleep.”

“Nah,” she said philosophically, lowering her hands and eyeing her clear complexion in the polished sword. “Don’t need much. Are we breaking our fast soon? Where’s Morrigan?”

Flora crawled out from beneath his arm, and he felt an odd melancholy at the loss of her slender, sturdy little body against his own. She sat upright and peered over the top of the bed, surveying the gloomy chamber with a curious eye. The room seemed empty, but that meant nothing. The spider weaving an intricate design between two ceiling beams could have been their shapechanging companion, as might the mouse scampering behind the skirting board. 

“I can’t see her,” Flora continued, answering her own question. “But she might be here.” 

She rested her chin on the bare baseboard of the bed, stretching out her arms. Her sleeves were rucked up to her elbows, the faint pink outline of chains still pressed into her skin. 

“We ought to break our fast and then leave straight away,” Alistair said, having regained some of his composure. “In case those guards go looking for their runaway healer.”

“Some people know that I’m a Warden too,” Flora said, vaguely. “Those soldiers from last night. Their captain recognised me from Ostagar. He called me Duncan’s bedwarmer. Are you  _ sure  _ it means someone who heats up stones for blankets?”

Alistair almost fell into the hearth. Fortunately, Flora was preoccupied with mending the last of the marks on her skin; face planted against her forearms. Ignoring her question, he returned to the more pertinent matter at hand.

“All the more reason to get moving as soon as possible,” he replied, grimly. “There’s a bounty on our heads, remember? Let’s check the map now and then we can leave after we eat.”

“Ooh! Yes.  _ The map _ .” 

Flora lifted her face, eyes lighting up. She liked maps: they provided plentiful information without requiring a great amount of writing, which she could not read. After some rummaging and muffled cursing, Alistair dug out a folded piece of parchment from the bottom of his pack. Flattening the map against the floorboards, both Wardens crouched on hands and knees above the yellowing square. Ferelden, inked in faded navy, lay before them: mountains, rivers and settlements traced by a careful, long-dead hand. It was an old map; the borders between Ferelden and Orlais had been redrawn several times with each iteration of war. 

Flora recognised the north coast immediately; no other part of Ferelden possessed such a jagged, antagonistic coastline. She traced the crude inlets and headlands with a wistful finger, unable to read the calligraphed labels.

“Which one is Herring? This?”

She pointed at a random black dot. Alistair glanced at it, then shook his head.

“No, that’s Highever. Herring isn’t important enough to be on here. Sorry.”

This was in response to Flora’s indignant expression, eyebrows shooting into her hairline. He laughed then added, wryly:

“If, by some miracle, we’re successful in our cause and manage to unite the armies and then kill the Archdemon, Herring will be added to every map in Ferelden.”

“Oh, no.” She looked alarmed. “They might get  _ visitors.  _ They don’t cope well with outsiders.” 

“I’d guessed.” Alistair suppressed a grin.

Flora stared down at the map, wondering how much of the south had already been swallowed by the Darkspawn army. She wished that the old parchment could, by some ingenious method, stain the land that had been seized by their enemy. For all they knew, the horde could have turned and moved deeper into the Korcari Wilds - or they could be within sight of Lothering. 

_ Do you know where the Darkspawn are? _

** _Yes._ **

_ Will you tell me? _

** _We will show you. _ **

_ When? _

** _When the time is right._ **

Her spirits fell silent, and Flora had to be content with that. She hoped fervently that ‘the right time’ was not when the horde was a half-mile from Lothering. In the meantime, Alistair pointed his finger at a smudged black mark in the southern part of the map. “Here, this is Lothering. If we’re still going to Redcliffe, that’s  _ here _ , on the southernmost tip of Lake Calanhad.” 

Flora looked at the length of his finger; then back up at his face. Her brow was furrowed in mild perplexion.

“Why wouldn’t we be still going to Redcliffe? We’re going to visit the arl there, aren’t we?”

Her brother-warden gave a slightly self-conscious laugh, his gaze sliding sideways towards the hearth. 

“Well. I just thought - since it was my idea, it was bound to be a poor one. You might have devised a better plan by now.”

_ “Me?”  _ Flora was astonished:  _ was he joking?  _

It seemed that he was serious; the corner of Alistair’s mouth twisted in the way that it always did whenever he disparaged himself. Flora lifted her eyes and caught his stare like a fishhook snagging flesh, the clear water irises unblinking. 

“Alistair,” she said, solemnly. “Your plan is a good one. We’re going to follow it.” 

Her sudden smile caught him off-guard. For a brief moment, the wry mask of self-depreciation dropped from the young man’s face and he stared at her, speechless. He had never felt so confused in his life; except for perhaps when Arl Eamon had revealed the truth of his parentage. 

Flora returned her gaze to the map, leaning forward on a palm to place a finger between Lothering and Redcliffe.

“Two knuckles apart,” she said, studying the faded demarcation. “How far is that in real distance?”

“Three days walking? Perhaps two and a half, if we don’t have any lie-ins.” He laughed, hoping to dispel the turbulence that had so unsettled the orderly structure of his mind. 

Flora looked confused:  _ what was a lie-in?  _

Before he could explain, Morrigan’s head appeared above them; the suddenness startled them both. 

“I have performed my good deed for the week,” she replied acerbically, crouching on the bed above them like a forest spider on a log. “Don’t you want to know what it is?”

“I think it’s meant to be a good deed for the  _ day _ , actually,” Alistair observed under his breath, while Flora sat back on her rump and gazed at Morrigan with customary wide-eyed curiosity.

“What did you do?”

Morrigan pulled her musky fur more tightly around herself; the chamber was chilly, and the hearth lay in ashes. There were no more logs left to ignite, and only a few scraps of kindling rested in the nearby basket. 

“I created a small...  _ disturbance _ near the guard barracks this morning.” She turned her wrist around, admiring the delicate weaving of the leather bracelet encircling it. 

“‘Tis safe to say the fools will be so preoccupied with looking for  _ me,  _ that they will no longer prioritise hunting down the healer who escaped her prison last night. The silly girl who put herself at risk for the sake of a few  _ strangers,”  _ Morrigan added hastily, averting her yellow cat’s stare as Flora’s mouth opened in an  _ O  _ of surprise. 

Alistair, astonished: “I must be dreaming - did you just do something  _ helpful?” _

“Gods forbid that she be captured and the fate of Ferelden be left to  _ you,”  _ retorted Morrigan, bristling. “We’d be doomed for certain.”

Flora cut across their squabbling with the glittering, steely firmness that occasionally cut through her gentle exterior. 

“Thank you,” she said, the pale stare flicking from one to the other like a whip. “D’you want to come to breakfast with us?”

To Alistair’s profound relief, Morrigan did not. The witch replied that it would be foolish for her to show her face so blatantly after her provocation of the guards; a thin veil of an excuse draped over the truth that she simply did not  _ want  _ to join them. After they agreed to reconvene on the town’s northern road, the witch folded herself abruptly into a mass of feathers and hollow bones; a dark, winged shape that arced across the bedchamber towards the empty hearth.

After rummaging further within their packs, Flora managed to find a large, ugly and shapeless woollen coat; scavenged from Flemeth’s dubious collection. Despite it being a garment intended for the outdoors, she put it on immediately; rolling up the sleeves several times. As she buttoned the coat up to her neck, Alistair watched her surreptitiously. He had never seen her clad in anything other than garb intended for a grown man whose proportions far exceeded her own. The young Warden wondered if this was an attempt to downplay the extraordinary artistry of her face, or if she simply did not care about what she wore. He had a suspicion that it was the latter. 

“Do you reckon Sister Lel- Lil- Lillian- ” Flora stumbled over the Orlesian name,“ - has paid for our breakfast as well?” 

She eyed him hopefully; her stomach letting out an opportune rumble. 

“Only one way to find out,” Alistair replied, rousing himself. “If she has, I might attend my first Chantry service in a year to give praise to the Maker!”

The tavern downstairs was already a quarter-full. Anaemic sunlight crept through smeared glass; illuminating the cling of dust missed by broom and cloth. A group of travelling men-at-arms were seated in one corner, backs turned and heads close in conversation. The surly elf from the passageway was contemplating the bottom of his tankard; the old, limping woman sat buried in her cloak near the door. Since this was no wealthy city tavern, no hearth-singer accompanied the muffled conversation or hid the hollow cadence of the innkeeper’s stride. 

As soon as Alistair and Flora descended from the upper storey, the owner of the tavern put down his polishing rag and hurried towards them. Instead of decrying Flora as the escaped mage, or - worse - both as a pair of traitorous Wardens; he ushered them towards a table. 

“I trust that you slept well. I’ll bring you eggs and somethin’ to swill your throat. Wouldn’t want to… ah… keep you from continuin’ your journey.”

The tavern-keeper swept them onto a bench, looking about nervously. Flora had the impression that he wanted them both gone as soon as possible. She was unsure why their presence was so disconcerting, but felt a prod of guilt regardless.

Alistair, meanwhile, was delighted by the prospect of  _ hot breakfast!  _ The chiselled face was split in a grin; flecks the colour of spring leaves lit up in the hazel eyes. 

“Just to check,” he ventured, hopefully. “We don’t need to  _ pay  _ for this, do we?” 

The man darted an anxious glance towards the door, whilst simultaneously shaking his head. 

“Your bed and board are fully guaranteed by Sister Leliana. I’ll not take your coin.”

“That’s excellent news,” replied Alistair, then continued in an undertone as the innkeeper scuttled back towards the bar. “Because we don’t  _ have _ any more coin. What are we going to eat on the road?”

He looked doleful once more: not even the imminent arrival of eggs was exciting enough to counter three days without food. The cutlery that he had gathered up was clenched against his palms, leaving narrow pink indentations in the flesh. 

Flora felt sorry for her brother-warden: who, until now, had always had his meals provided for him. By his own admission, he had lived first in the grounds of a castle, then within a Templar monastery, and finally as part of the Grey Wardens. Food was gathered and prepared by others, and made readily available at the end of a queue. 

“It’s just… it seems ridiculous. We’ve got this near-impossible task,” he lowered his voice, “of ending the Blight, just the  _ two  _ of us, alone, while somehow evading Mac Tir’s hired hunters, and we don’t even have enough coin to buy  _ lunch _ .”

Flora reached out and carefully extracted the fork from his tightened fist. There was a strand of melancholy within Alistair that she had first noticed at Ostagar, seemingly in discord with his charming, irreverent exterior. As a northerner, Flora was attuned to solemnity; it grew through her like something hard and skeletal. 

“Eh, we’ll be fine” she replied pragmatically, placing the fork on the table before them. “We’re following the river to Redcliffe. There’s always something to eat in the water. And we aren’t  _ alone _ . We have my spirits, and Morrigan.”

Alistair snorted at the thought of Morrigan as an ally. 

_ “AND.  _ We have THESE _ .” _

She rolled her eyes at him significantly, raising one brow while lowering the other; patting the crumpled treaties against her breast so that they rustled reassuringly. 

Her brother-warden laughed out loud. 

“Ha! What’s  _ that _ face meant to be?” 

Flora was nonplussed. “What face?”

“The one you just made.”

Mildly indignant: “That’s my ‘ _ this is important’  _ face.”

Alistair grinned at her; it was always amusing when the dignified exterior of her beauty contorted into the unexpectedly comedic. 

“It looks more like an  _ episode of sudden lunacy’  _ face, my dear.” 

Unable to think of any smart response, Flora crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue like a gargoyle. The tavern-keeper, who had just arrived with two platefuls and precariously balanced tankards, shot her a mildly terrified look as he served them. The eggs were overcooked but steaming hot, accompanied by a thick wedge of wheat bread. Alistair fell on them before the plate had even settled on the table, grabbing up the fork that Flora had taken. Flora picked up her own fork, then put it down again. 

“Where can we find Sister Lel- Lolana?” she asked, suddenly curious. “To say thank you to her. For paying for all this.”

The innkeeper darted a quick glance over his shoulder, then lowered his bearded face until Flora could see the years of drinking imbued in fine, florid lines across his skin. 

“ _ You _ don’t find Sister Leliana,” he murmured under his breath, shooting her his own variant of a  _ significant _ expression.  _ “She  _ finds  _ you _ .”

“Well, good,” said Flora, oblivious to the ominous tone. “I hope she does.” 

The man retreated to the bar, wending his way between the tables and benches. Flora watched him go, taking an overly large mouthful of bread and almost choking. Alistair had already almost finished his eggs; the fork moving continuously between mouth and plate. She noticed that, even as the innkeeper ushered them onto a discreet table half-hidden behind a wooden post, Alistair had ensured that he was seated on the outside. This way, his body - tall and broad as a young redwood - shielded her from curious eyes or prowling watchmen. 

Unfortunately, despite his valiant effort to keep her hidden, nature was calling. Flora slithered around the other end of the table, swallowing the last of her bread. 

“I need the privy,” she said, looking around. “Do I have to use the one upstairs?”

“No,” replied her brother-warden, setting his empty bowl over the remainder of her eggs to trap the heat. “There’s one down the corridor, by the back door.”

He watched Flora shuffle between the tables, her plump braid falling the full length of her back. The red of her hair was so dark that it looked like the skin of a ripe plum. When she had disappeared from view down the passage, he finished the last of his small beer and leaned back on the bench. He tried not to think about the sheer magnitude of the task before them; recalling his sister-warden’s stoic pragmatism. 

_ We’ll be fine,  _ she had said, through a mouthful of food.  _ We ain’t alone. We can do it.  _

The former Templar-novice never thought that his older self would be grateful for the company of spirits. Yet, in the wake of Ostagar - where the entirety of the Warden senior command had been massacred on a single drizzly evening - he found himself oddly reassured by the ‘presence’ of Flora’s unseen companions. Since they were (she claimed) many Ages old, he assumed that they must have accrued no small amount of wisdom by this point. It was good to have some sort of authority overseeing them. 

His thoughts returned yet again to the moment where he had woken up with Flora curled against him. By all accounts, he should have woken cold and plagued with cramps; a man of his build was not meant to rest wedged upright. Yet, he had slept more soundly than he had done in - months?  _ Years?  _

_ Because I woke up with her in my arms? _

The thought both excited and troubled him.  _ Duncan had been betrayed enough, _ the young man thought fiercely to himself.  _ I won’t be disloyal and covet the girl he so… admired? Desired?  _

“Alistair? Alistair Hay-hair?”

The voice was incredulous, strident and male. 

Alistair startled, almost knocking the bowl of eggs from the table. He had not heard that nickname in a decade; the teasing moniker assigned due to the permanent presence of straw in his hair. Such dishevelment was a perennial hazard when working and sleeping in the stables. 

He looked up to see three half-remembered faces hovering above him. The heraldry of their badges was a far clearer marker of identity: a grey keep on a mount of red rock. The men were older now, more weathered; the hair fading and falling away as the fourth decade mellowed into a fifth. Still, he recognised them; as a boy, he had wanted desperately to  _ be  _ one of them. He had spent hours surreptitiously watching the Redcliffe knights as they clashed swords in the training yard: the sweaty, iron-grey flanks of their warhorses gleaming as bright as their armour. 

Alistair rose to his feet and one of them- whose horse he had spent years tending in the Redcliffe stable - let out a laugh of confirmation, pleased that he was right.

“I knew it! Soon as I caught sight of your long shanks and that hair.”

“Ser Donall,” said Alistair, the name rising to the surface of his memory. “It’s been a while.”

“Ten years,” replied the old knight, making a gesture. “Come and join us by the fire.”

Alistair hesitated, but the prospect of finding out more about Redcliffe and Arl Eamon - such as, whose cause he favoured - was irresistible. The arl had never been Mac Tir’s most devout supporter; the two men had frequently clashed over the succession and kingship of Cailan. He picked up Flora’s bowl, and her fork, and went to join the knights at the table beside the hearth. 

There came a ripple of interest as Alistair sat, the careworn group roused themselves from their tankards to eye him curiously. Most of them remembered Alistair as a child in Arl Eamon’s stables: at ten, he had the build and strength of a fourteen year old, but no other stable boy had a gentler touch with the horses. They liked Alistair best, with his kind hazel eyes, and merry smile; and his habit of sneaking them scraps from the great hall tables. 

“You’ve kept growing,” Ser Donall observed, reclaiming his ale. “Knew you were going to be a strong one. Should’ve taken you as my squire, you’d be a far sight better than that lazy sod.”

The lazy sod - a scrawny youth with a weak chin - was skulking in the corner, sulkily cleaning the mud from a bridle. Alistair shot him a brief glance, then returned his attention to the ageing man before him. He recalled how Ser Donall had once been ambushed by three highwaymen on the road to Rainesfere. The knight had single-handedly slain two, bound up the third with rope and dragged him back to the gibbet. The incident had been the talk of the castle for weeks; for a time, the favourite game of local children was  _ Ser Donall hangs the highwaymen.  _

The man sitting before Alistair now was a faded imitation of the bold knight who had ridden triumphantly into Redcliffe, resplendent in his armour and with a bandit staggering at his heels. It was more than the simple advance of years that sunk his eyes into his skull; his hair seemed to have gone straight from black to white. Thick crevasses were carved around the corners of his mouth, and his hand shook slightly when he lifted the tankard to his mouth. The other knights seemed similarly fatigued; their faces wary and conversation guarded. 

“Why  _ didn’t _ I take you as my squire?” Ser Donall continued, speaking more to himself than the young man sat nearby. “Ah, yes - you were sent away to the monastery at Bournshire, I recall it now.”

Another knight added: “Horses were sorry to see you go. Wasn’t your choice to leave though, was it?”

“Lady Isolde was never all that keen on me,” replied Alistair diplomatically, scraping the fork around Flora’s cooling eggs to stop them from congealing. “She’s still at Redcliffe, then?”

Ser Donall’s eyes flickered.

“Yes.” He changed the branch of conversation swiftly. “How’d you get on with the Templars? I can’t see you getting up to pray at dawn each morning.”

Alistair did not know what to say. Clearly, the news that he had been plucked from the divine constraints of the Templars and recruited into the Wardens had not become common knowledge in Redcliffe. 

“I left the monastery,” he replied at last, slowly. The hesitancy in his voice drew the attention of the others. 

_ “Left?  _ Are novices allowed to leave?”

“I,” said Alistair, mentally scrabbling. “I, uh- ”

“It’s  _ my _ fault.”

The knights turned towards the new voice, then visibly startled. With a rustle of mail and a scrape of wood they rose to their feet, astonishment and admiration writ across each careworn face. Alistair had almost forgotten the effect that his sister-warden had on those seeing her for the first time; especially on men in groups. 

Flora, on emerging from the corridor, had noticed immediately that Alistair was now seated amongst a group of armoured strangers. She did not recognise their livery, but remembered that Mac Tir’s coat of arms was a gold dragon on a black field. As she ventured tentatively closer, she noticed that their heraldry sported a grey tower on a crimson mound.

_ Is that…. Redcliffe? They’re from Redcliffe? _

** _Yes._ **

She felt a surge of pride at her correct deduction. Her spirits did not grant her time to gloat over such triumph; the general hissed in her ear.

** _Speak what we speak. _ **

Alistair watched his sister-warden approach. Despite the ugly, ill-fitting coat and the careless braiding of Flora’s hair, she drew eyes to her like a candle in a shadowed vault. As she neared, he realised that there was a slight absence writ across the fine-featured face; this meant, he knew, that she was conversing with her spirits.

_ “I’m _ the reason that Alistair left the service of the Chantry,” she said, slowly and carefully. “I led him astray with my feminine bile -  _ guile.”  _

It was clear to Alistair that she was simply repeating what her spirits were dictating to her; he could see the faint furrow of concentration across her brow. The young man realised at once what he needed to say. Hoping that it seemed a natural gesture, he reached out and took Flora’s hand, pulling her to the bench. He did not release her palm once they were sat side-by-side; it was warm and soft, and fit into his hand as though it had been made for it. 

“We’re to be married,” he said, deliberately not looking at her. “Flora and I. And I wanted us to be wed in Redcliffe; since it’s where I was born. I was hoping that the arl might give us his blessing. Is he in good health?”

There was a hesitation, that eventually turned into a drawn out pause. Ser Donall glanced at the bottom of his tankard; another knight’s gaze slid sideways into the hearth. Flora felt Alistair’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around her own.

“Is the arl  _ not  _ in good health, then?” her brother-warden asked, keeping his tone deliberately casual.

“The arl is- ” Ser Donall grimaced, as though he had bitten into something sour. “The arl has not been well for some time.” 

Alistair felt Flora fidget against his side. He hoped that she would not announce that she was a mender, and would be happy to heal their sickly arl. He thought it best, in such uncertain times, to hide her identity as a mage; much like he had chosen not to disclose their status as Wardens. Although Eamon Guerrin had been no supporter of Mac Tir while the man was a teyrn, the situation might have shifted now that Loghain had become regent of Ferelden. 

Fortunately, Flora remained silent; either she had come to a similar conclusion, or her spirits had instructed her to stay quiet. Instead, she occupied herself with shoving as much bread into her mouth as humanly possible. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Alistair replied at last, feeling the pressure of her small fingers woven between his own. “I hope he’s feeling better by the time we reach Redcliffe.” 

The knights looked unconvinced. Ser Donall explained in an undertone that they were on the eastern road; headed to South Reach to retrieve an apothecary of some renown. The arlessa had sent another party of knights west to seek out a Rainesfere priestess rumoured to have a Maker-blessed touch. It seemed that the lady Isolde was searching every avenue in an attempt to see her husband recovered. 

Shortly afterwards, Ser Donall and his party took their leave. The old knight was uneasy, as if he had accidentally given too much away to the young couple. This confused Alistair; surely the arl’s current health was not a shameful secret? It was not as though the Guerrins were in danger of being usurped or ousted from their ancestral seat; they were one of the most widely respected noble houses in Ferelden.

Still, it was clear that he would gain no further enlightenment from the knights. Ser Donall congratulated him on winning the hand of such a beautiful young woman - a blushing Alistair realised that his fingers were still clasped within Flora’s - and wished them luck on their journey north. The party departed from the tavern shortly after; the surly squire trailing in their wake.

“So, Arl Eamon is ill,” Alistair said into the silence that followed their absence, more to himself. “It must be serious if Isolde is sending out the knights.”

“Who’s Isolde?” Flora asked through a mouthful of semi-cold eggs; having gently extracted her fingers and retrieved her fork. 

“The arlessa.” His face contorted in an involuntary grimace. “I doubt that she’ll be pleased to see me. She always thought that her husband was my father.”

“Ooh.” Flora furrowed her brow. “Well, if he’s sick, I can cure him.”

Alistair admired her absolute confidence:  _ I can cure him. _

“Is there anything you  _ can’t _ cure?” he asked, curious. 

“Blood curses,” she replied, scraping her fork around the perimeter of the bowl. “Hexes. Jinxes. Possessions. Um, also - the common cold.” 

“The _ common cold?”  _ He bit back the urge to laugh.

Flora scowled: this was clearly a sore point.

“My spirits say that if they let me cure colds, I’ll be too powerful,” she grumbled, rolling the bowl around on its rim with an idle finger. “It ain’t fair. People make fun of me when I say that I can’t cure a cold.” 

“Well,” Alistair replied, with deliberate solemnity. “Let’s hope that the arl doesn’t have the sniffles, then.”

She eyeballed him, unsure whether he was teasing her.

The next few events happened very swiftly; so fast that they seemed to tumble together like toppling books. The door of the tavern flew back and crashed against the wall with such force that the reverberation dislodged a painting. Three men stood in the space, crowded together shoulder to leather clad shoulder, curved swathes of metal glinting at their hips. The sky behind them was a pale, sickly yellow; the sun only a suggestion behind whispers of insubstantial cloud. 

“We’re on a Warden hunt,” announced one, the gilded dragon on his badge gleaming in the sunlight. “Heard a rumour there were a few  _ grey rats  _ holed up here.”

“And the teyrn is paying good coin for each rat we bring him,” added the man to his left, unsheathing his blade with slow relish. “Though he’s only interested in their heads.”

“Don’t try to run,” said the third, a cruel smile pulling at the corner of his thin lips. “We’ve no time for games.” 

_ “Oui,”  _ said the old woman huddled near the door, who had stood up, discarded her cloak and revealed herself to be anything but old. The point of her nocked arrow glinted brighter than the badge of Mac Tir as she turned it towards the doorway; her  cropped auburn hair shone like polished copper. “I agree. ‘ _ Don’t try to run’.”  _

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol how have I spent 5k words describing them waking up and having breakfast?? No wonder this chapter took so long to finish!!
> 
> So I’ve changed Leliana a little for this interpretation- she’s got a bit of an intimidating reputation in Lothering already! Also, surprise stealth Leliana! Flora is having trouble pronouncing her Orlesian name.
> 
> Also I made flora unable to heal the common cold as a nod to our modern science being unable to do the same haha 
> 
> I’m enjoying writing this story so much!!!! It’s literally so much FUN :D thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed <3


	33. The Lay-Sister

The innkeeper dropped his tray with a discordant clatter. Tankards rolled beneath the tables and several plates shattered into a dozen angular shards against the flagstones. The rest of the tavern was frozen: a tableaux in an Orlesian setpiece drama. Even the hearthflame seemed to writhe more slowly in the grate. The three men crowded in the doorway, were shadowed by three more at their back; each one clad in the distinctive, dark livery of the teyrn. Their unsheathed blades were held before them; the aggressive jut of steel at odds with the sedentary ebb of the tavern.

Before them stood a woman who had cloaked - and carried - herself as though she were old; but this had been a lie along with the perception of her frailty. Yet, there was still contradiction in her appearance. She was clad in the humble, roughspun garb of a lay sister, the  _ Makerdawn  _ embroidered proud across her breast. The pungent odour of Chantry incense rolled from her flesh, as though she had daubed it on her neck and wrists like lady’s scent. A string of prayer beads were looped around her wrist; the wrist currently elevated in support of a curved length of yew. The other hand was drawn back to an exposed ear, an arrow nocked in the bowstring. The jagged tip was no more than three feet from the first man’s face.

“What the fuck are  _ you,” _ said the first man at last, doubt and incredulity strewn across the coarse landscape of his face. “Some sort of - ”

The arrow cut through the air with a snap. It thrust the man backwards with the force of its impact, pinning him back against the door by the ear. The man let out a grunt of shock, eyes rolling in confusion. Then came the pain; a contorted writhe and frantic clawing.

_ “That’s no way to speak to a lady, _ ” sang the woman, her bright, wintersky eyes stinging. “But it’s  _ clear _ to me that you are no gentlemen. Now, will you stand down or will you taste the loving wrath of the Maker?”

The rest of the tavern was still frozen in shock, though the innkeeper and his boggle-eyed wife had made a hasty retreat behind the bar. Mac Tir’s men gauged the odds: five of them still standing, armed and at close range, versus one deranged, bow-wielding priestess. Deciding that the balance was in their favour, the first two began an erratic lunge. 

The attempted charge ended abruptly as a wooden bench hit them square in the face. Instantly there was a sickening crunch of flesh and bone. Both men staggered backwards and went tumbling out of sight, along with the unexpected missile. Alistair, who had left his sword in the bedchamber, had been forced to improvise with furniture. He had hurled the bench that he and Flora had been sitting on nearly fifteen feet across the tavern; striking true. 

With one man still fixed to the door and two groaning on the ground, there were three would-be assassins left standing. The woman swiftly nocked another arrow - she had not flinched as the bench hurtled past - and aimed it directly at the face before her. 

“What will you?” she asked, and her voice had the lilting, melodic cadence of the west. “If you run, I may shoot and if the Maker wishes you to live, He will direct my arrow to miss.”

One man turned and, with a gibber of fright, began to stumble across the square. Two women, on their way to the market with baskets under their arm, startled in alarm. When an arrow planted itself between his shoulder blades with a solid thump, and he fell face-first onto the dirt, one of them let out a little shriek. 

“The Maker chose  _ penance _ ,” the woman breathed, her eyes alight with devotion. “And I am but the humble tool of His will. Pray with me for his soul!”

She dropped to her knees, the bow lowered to the floorboards beside her. Her eyes closed tightly, her hands moved in a flowing, circular gesture, and she began to murmur under her breath. The two remaining assassins were at an utter loss for what to do - their leader was still pinned to the door, moaning. Such was the force of the strange woman’s will that they both sunk to their knees and closed their eyes.

The innkeeper and his wife took one look over the top of the bar, then hastily ducked out of view. The distant sound of the market filtered in through the doorway; the prosaic rumble of barrels unloaded and muffled chatter seemed at odds with the strangeness of the scene inside the tavern. Blood from the man’s punctured ear was trickling in steady rivulets down the wood; two converged as they reached the ground. The other patrons were still sitting motionless in their seats, astonished and strangely fascinated; as though they were watching the performance of some peculiar play. 

Alistair dug an urgent elbow into Flora, who was standing open-mouthed at his side. 

“Flo,” he hissed down at the top of her head, which was all he could reach in the circumstances. “Flora, let’s  _ go;  _ let’s just get our stuff and get out of here. The woman’s insane.”

Flora nodded rapidly, her eyes round as silver coins.

Before they could make a move towards the stairs, the priestess rose to her feet in a fluid, seamless motion. The remaining men, stunned at the abrupt reversal of their fortunes, tugged their leader from the door - he let out a howl - and stumbled away; abandoning their companions slumped senseless beside the toppled bench. The two young recruits froze in their tracks as a long, slender and surprisingly callused finger (for a priestess) angled itself towards them.

“Grey Wardens.” 

The woman turned to face them, giving them their first full view of her since the dramatic decloaking. The Chantry robe could not hide the long, hard body of a racing hound; the arms, swathed in prayer beads, were sinewy and muscular. She was twenty five, or perhaps as old as thirty. Her hair was a bright, autumnal copper and shorn to functional length; a watchful, austere face alight with intensity. Her eyes, in contrast to the angular sharpness of her body, were a soft and beautiful blue. 

“And she’s  _ Orlesian,” _ Alistair added, even more alarmed. “Maker’s Breath! Are you ready with your shield? She’s coming  _ this way.” _

“Um,” replied his sister-warden, looking entirely unprepared. 

The woman moved with the fluid assurance of a creature in its own territory. She came to a halt before them, the yew bow slung over her shoulder like a recalcitrant child. There was a splatter of blood across the  _ Makerdawn  _ embroidered on her chest. 

“Wardens,” she said once again, and her voice was rich and mellifluous. “I am  _ very _ glad to meet you. Do you know who I am?”

There was no arrogance in the query, just a mild curiosity. 

“Yes,” breathed Flora.  _ “Queen Anora.” _

The stranger appeared slightly wrong-footed. 

“Come to avenge your dead husband!” Flora said, deciding that she would not mention how Cailan had once undone her shirt buttons. “By joining us and defeating the Darkspawn!”

Despite the fact that they now had indisputable proof that Mac Tir was set on hunting them down, Alistair wanted to laugh. Instead of correcting her, he remained silent. 

“I am not the queen,” said the woman, then let out a laugh that sounded like the tinkling of bells.  _ “Certainement,  _ there is nothing royal about me.”

Flora frowned, looking about her as though Anora might have been crouching behind the freestanding kegs. 

“I don’t know why she ain’t here,” she said, more to herself than those around her. “If my husband got killed before he could defeat the Darkspawn, I’d come and finish the job.”

The young mage returned her attention to Leliana. The rest of the tavern was slowly returning to normalcy: the innkeeper crept out from behind the bar, the yawning elf resumed his drinking. The innkeeper’s wife, in a practised motion, rolled the two unconscious men from the doorway into the gutter outside. She tugged loose the arrow from the frame and wiped away the smear of blood with her apron, tutting. 

“My name is Leliana,” said the woman, as smoothly as if she were introducing herself at a society gathering. “I am a lay sister of the Chantry. It is  _ wonderful _ to meet you both.” 

“Not like any lay sister  _ I’ve  _ ever met,” muttered Alistair, barely moving his mouth. 

_ “‘Sister Leliana finds you’,” _ Flora said, repeating the innkeeper’s earlier warning. “Thank you for paying for our room. And for our dinner.” 

The woman bowed her head, spreading her long-fingered hands in a  _ my pleasure  _ gesture. Alistair inhaled the incense daubed generously on her skin, eyed the prayer beads around her wrists and a wave of apprehension rolled up from his belly. Out of the two recruits, he had had far more exposure to the Chantry than his sister-warden. He had heard - many times - their warnings about mages, their lectures on the dangers of magic and the deceitful nature of the spirits that they consorted with. Templars-in-training were taught that those who drew power from the Fade were unnatural; aberrations of the Maker’s will who needed to be suppressed at all costs, and by any means. The chief role of the Templar was to protect the population from such dangerous creatures. Alistair had not always paid attention to such dire warnings - he had not been the most devoted of novices - but he had absorbed enough prejudice through the skin to be wary of Flora when they first met. He had built a barrier between their bedrolls and denounced her magic as  _ weird;  _ he had watched her coolly from the tail of a narrowed eye. He had lingered outside Duncan’s tent each time that she mended him; ready to burst in and defend his commander if she somehow lost control. He had been resentful of her beauty, ashamed that he could not stop himself from admiring it, and confused as to why the Maker would bestow such a blessing on a  _ mage _ . 

_ Don’t glower at her, Alistair,  _ Duncan had chided him.  _ She’s one of us now. Her magic is a tool, like you or I might wield a sword.  _

Now, as he took in the trappings of the Chantry draped over this strange, sinewy, bright-eyed woman, Alistair felt a similar surge of protectiveness. This time, though, it was not on behalf of their dead commander, or for the benefit of others around them. Now, he suddenly feared for the safety of his sister-warden, for she was a mage, and the Chantry despised her on principle. 

He took a step closer to Flora; she looked up at him, astonished. 

Leliana also noticed the young man’s vigilance. Instead of showing affront; a forbearing smile drew the corners of her mouth upwards. 

“I understand your wariness,” she said, earnest. “Is this the first time that you’ve encountered men sent to kill you?” 

Flora thought about it:  _ Darkspawn were not men, yesterday’s bandits were not sent.  _

“Yes,” she replied, eyeing the assorted tips of the arrows clustered in the woman’s quiver. Several were notched, two were wound in cloth and one was coated in something dark and oily. 

Leliana nodded, with the assurance of one who knew  _ exactly  _ what was going on.

“They will be the first of many, Wardens,” she said, loosening the quiver strap on her shoulder. “Assassins, mercenaries, soldiers, desperate bannermen. Loghain Mac Tir has put a price on your head that would make a man rich. You will be hunted the breadth of Ferelden.”

“You know an awful lot,” interjected Alistair, suspicion narrowing his eyes. “For a lay sister in a rural Chantry.”

The woman allowed herself another, more private smile. 

“The Maker sent a message to me in a dream,” she said in a hushed tone, as though sharing a secret. “I saw myself, riding a silver griffin through the sky as firestorms raged below me. When I awoke, I knew immediately that I had been charged with a divine duty - to assist the Grey Wardens in the defence of our homeland.”

_ “Our  _ homeland?” repeated Alistair, dubious. “You sound fresh out of Val Royeaux.”

“My mother was from Denerim.  _ Malheureusement,  _ no one else in the cloisters would believe me, but I knew that I was correct. And then I overheard you Wardens conversing in the side-chapel. More proof that I was destined to join you.”

“You want to help us because of a  _ dream? Really?”  _ His hazel eyes were narrow and slatted with suspicion. 

Leliana assumed a pious expression. 

“It is not for me to question the will of the Maker,” she said, softly. “He has shown me great kindness after… after tumultuous times. I must follow His guidance. Although…”

Her smile flickered slightly. “Although, I did not think that you would both be so  _ young.” _

“I’m three times older in fish years,” offered Flora, unhelpfully. 

They both looked at her and she stared back, unblinking. 

“So, just to be clear,” Alistair said, after a long moment of silence. “You want to… come with us?”

Leliana bestowed a smile of confirmation on him, her powder-blue eyes glinting as though to say:  _ no, I  _ will _ be coming with you.  _ Her fingers danced from her bow to the beads dangling from her wrist, back and forth in a practised motion. The other patrons of the tavern were still watching in mild astonishment; fortunately, nobody dared move to summon the guard. 

“Let me just… speak with my sister-warden for a moment.”

He drew Flora behind one of the wooden posts that supported the staircase, hoping that the structural feature would mask his words. Flora had reclaimed her cold and congealed bowl of eggs from the table and was eating them as quickly as possible; aware that they would soon be on the move. 

“What do you think?” 

“Eh?” Her mouth was full. “About what?”

“Sister Shoots-A-Lot joining us.” 

Alistair grimaced, darting a look back around the pillar. Leliana had not moved from the centre of the tavern; her eyes were shut and her lips moving in small, silent patterns. Her fingers - the tips callused - were pressed together tightly. She might have been praying, or perhaps she was confessing; after all, she had just slain a man. 

“Did you see her pin that man’s ear to the door?” Flora was caught between admiration and a healer’s distaste for violence. “She’s got good aim. I wonder if she’s ever tried spear-fishing?” 

Her brother-warden looked unconvinced. 

“Who’s to say she isn’t working for Mac Tir? I don’t buy that she’s been a lay-sister long. Only new converts get this zealous. I don’t fancy listening to sermons for hours on end.”

Flora puzzled over it for a moment, her pale brow furrowed. Her spirits remained stubbornly silent on the matter; she eventually decided that their reticence meant that Leliana posed no direct threat.

“You know,” she said at last, thoughtfully. “If there really are mercenaries and assassins and soldiers after us, we should have some help. Morrigan might just keep disappearing when we get into fights.” 

Alistair ground his teeth. He was unsure how to shape his worries into words. Flora saw the grimace, and misinterpreted it. She reached out and tapped her fingers lightly against his sleeve. 

“She can  _ sermonise  _ at me,” she added, solemnly. “I have a good ‘pretending-to-listen’ face. I used it a lot at the Circle.”

He looked at his sister-warden for a long moment; forcing himself to see beyond the arresting pull of her beauty. Below the sooty fringe of her lashes, rested faint violet crescents; a discolouration of the skin near-invisible to the naked eye. Alistair remembered that she had only claimed a few scant hours of rest, sacrificing sleep to offer her mending to the refugees. 

“Fine,” he heard himself say. “Fine, she can join us, but you’re still sleeping next to me. I don’t give a nug about propriety.” 

Flora smiled up at him; the corners of the full mouth bowing upwards.

_ “Merveilleux,”  _ interjected the lay-sister; who had been blatantly eavesdropping. “Let us leave without delay.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE Leliana! I’ve ramped up her initial zealotry because it’s more fun XD This was a really good chapter to write, in the original, Leliana introduces herself by just walking into the Wardens’ room. So this time I wanted to do something more in line with how the game introduces her! Also lol I can’t believe we’ve been in Lothering for like 5 chapters hahaha


	34. Farewell To Lothering

Once it had been decided that Leliana would join their party, the young Wardens returned to the bedchamber to retrieve their belongings. It did not take long to gather up their scant possessions and pile them haphazardly into the packs. Cloaks or coats were slung around shoulders; boots retrieved from the dusty realm beneath the bed. Alistair strapped on his sword-belt while resolving to never break his fast unarmed again. Flora checked that the treaties were still tucked beneath her shirt - the parchment rested stiff and rippled against her skin - then reminded herself to retrieve her staff from where it had been secreted in a hollow trunk. 

“I swear, Flo,” Alistair hissed as they navigated the steps down to the main tavern. “I can’t listen to this  _ Leliana  _ woman spouting sermons for hours on end. I spent ten years listening to them while I was in the monastery.”

“Maybe she won’t  _ sermonise  _ at us _ ,”  _ Flora replied doubtfully, clutching the bannister as her knee gave a twinge. The weak joint had not responded well to her night of wandering the refugee camp. “Maybe she’ll just… talk to Morrigan instead.”

Alistair immediately brightened, the sculpted lines of his face lifting in a grin.

“And just like that, I feel a  _ lot  _ better,” he said, reaching out a long arm to manoeuvre Flora’s pack onto his own shoulder. “Why is your pack so heavy? I’d pay good coin to watch the lay sister try and convert the witch. Except you know that they’d probably kill each other.”

A solemn Flora nodded; she had arrived at the same conclusion. “Ooh! Who do you think would win?” 

“Ha! Maker only knows.”

The other patrons of the tavern had returned to drinking with melancholy urgency; the air had a strange, prickling tension. The innkeeper was delighted to see them approach with travel packs slung over their shoulders. He bade them farewell with an insincere smile; his more candid wife glowered openly. Rumours spread swiftly through Lothering, fuelled by the taut, tremulous atmosphere. Mages were unwelcome enough beneath the tavern roof (who knew if they might  _ exhale _ a stray spark and ignite the place?) but  _ Wardens  _ were another matter altogether, especially in light of recent events. 

The unwelcome guests emerged from the tavern into a sallow wash of light. A pale yolk of sun was encircled by a mass of cloud; rain striped in bands across the sky. Lothering appeared resigned to invasion: doors were barred and windows boarded. The scant few who ventured along the roads scuttled with grim eyes fixed on their feet. 

Lying in a darkened puddle outside the tavern, facedown and motionless, was the mercenary who had tried to flee. It was a stark reminder that all was not right within the beleaguered town: no guard appeared to make arrests, no priestess was summoned to cleanse the body. The corpse lay leaking where it fell; a bloody stain across the tapestry of normalcy. 

Nearby, entirely unbothered, was the woman responsible. Leliana was perched atop a small cart, with the reins of a weary, spackle-muzzled mule wound over her wrist. Such was her straight-backed poise that she might have been seated in some noble’s gilded carriage, headed by a well-groomed thoroughbred. The lay sister had abandoned the Chantry robe and was garbed in travelling leathers, her shorn hair braided to keep it away from her eyes. Her yew bow rested close at hand; accessible in an instant. 

For Alistair, the old mule and its battered cart was a more welcome sight than any Orlesian palanquin. There were several crates wedged in the rear; alongside long rolls of canvas. Lumpen parcels of wrapped foodstuffs were stacked nearby. Leliana smiled at his raw incredulity, waving a nonchalant hand to the rear. 

“I was fortunate enough to gain a little  _ influence _ in this town, during the short time I was here,” she murmured, leaning forward to pat the mule on the side of its neck. “I received some...  _ donations  _ towards our journey.” 

“We were eating berries and mushrooms on our way here,” Alistair replied, wedging his pack and Flora’s into the crowded rear of the cart. “We had to scavenge them from the Wilds, while Morrigan flew overhead and laughed at us - ah, you haven’t met her yet.” The corner of his mouth curved in an involuntary grin. “Our other companion.”

“The black haired woman you dined with last night.” Leliana smiled back, briefly. “She seems…  _ quite _ the character. I assume you met her on your travels?”

This time, Alistair made no response. He had cut off a reply and looked around, before retracing his steps to where Flora was still crouched. She had just finished checking the slain assassin for signs of life - there were none - and was now trying to wrestle the corpse away from the tavern doorway, where it had been stepped over by several patrons. Her hair was disheveled and there were two flushed patches of unhappiness on the high points of her cheeks.

He helped her to move the body to the side of the porch, then caught her eye; lowering his voice. 

“Flora.” 

She looked at him, and Alistair could see the downwards curve of the full and generous mouth; like a sickle moon upended. He had the urge to brush the wayward hair away from her face; he kept his arms deliberately stiff. 

“Flora,” he said again, sternly. “Flo, the man was an assassin. Someone who  _ kills _ for coin. He would have brought our heads to Mac Tir in a sack.”

Flora looked at her boots: in her heart, she knew this. If her general-spirit had been standing before her, the reproach would have been palpable.

** _The boy is right. He was an enemy. _ **

_ I know! But… but. _

But there was another spirit that clung to Flora’s consciousness; one far older, and more potent; one that had cleaved to her a half-decade before her general’s arrival. Compassion had woven itself into the fibrous thread of her being before she was old enough to pronounce its name. 

“Let me guess,” Alistair said, not unkindly. “You’re wondering about the circumstances that set him down the  _ path of criminality _ . Whether he was desperate for coin, had a sick child that needed medicine, or rent that was overdue.”

“Missing meals makes any man a murderer,” mumbled Flora, speaking word for word what Compassion had once told her. “He could’ve been hungry.”

“Or, he could have been  _ greedy.  _ Not every criminal has a tragic past, Flo. Most are just… opportunists. Remember the bandits?”

She kept staring at her boots and he remembered that she was not used to the harsh reality of life outside the padded walls of the Circle, or Herring’s barbed, deliberate isolation. He, Alistair, had seen robbers, rapers and thieves hanged with regularity before the main keep of Redcliffe Castle; their flesh-strewn skulls hung from pikes on the waybridge. 

“Flo,” he said, more gently. “This isn’t the last time that someone will cross our path and end up dead. You can’t take each one to heart.”

A mournful Flora nodded, still disconsolate. Without thinking, Alistair reached out an arm and drew her towards him in an unpractised half-hug. No armour created an angular barrier between them this time; he could feel the pliable slenderness of her body sinking neatly against his own. The smell of plain soap rose from her flesh: in her own words, she had scrubbed herself that morning 'as though she were stripping scales from a fish’. 

When they parted, she looked far happier. He felt a surge of shy, incredulous pride that an embrace from  _ him  _ \- awkward, inexperienced Alistair - could cheer her up so visibly. 

_ I was only comforting her,  _ he explained to the reproving spectre that looked at him with coal-black Rivaini eyes.  _ No need to stare. _

Flora’s spirits were further lifted by Leliana’s cart, and the supplies packed within it. There was enough space for her and Alistair to ride in the back, albeit wedged between crates and rolls of canvas. Despite the sulky mien of the sky, the temperature was mild and the wind lacked the usual wintery bite. 

“Our journey begins again,” declared Leliana, although she seemed to be directing her remark heavenwards rather than over her shoulder to the Wardens.  _ “Allons-y!” _

The grey mule obediently set off. Recalling how she was technically a  _ wanted woman  _ within Lothering, Flora hunched down, and wondered if she should put a bag over her head. Meanwhile, Alistair had begun to appraise the contents of the food-crates, delight writ naked across his face. 

“Fereldan cheddar, sourdough, butter -  _ look,  _ Flo. Pickled onions!” 

“Oooh,” replied Flora, peering between the wooden slats. “No more berries and mushrooms?”

_ “No more berries and mushrooms!” _

She drew her knees up and smiled at him, the teeth rattling in her head as the cart lurched over a pothole. 

“I’m still going to fish for our breakfast. I wanted to see what southern trout tastes like.” 

Alistair looked at his sister-warden: bundled incongruously between the canvas and precariously stacked crates. The sleeves on her overlarge woollen coat were rolled up three times. It hung from her shoulders and sagged open near her belly; the fabric seemed determined to arc away from her body at each opportunity. He wondered how warm it was, and where her travel cloak had gone. He then recalled last night’s vague explanation: she had given it away.

“Do you want my cloak?”

“Eh?” 

Flora was now looking at the houses filing past; shuttered and boarded. The streets of Lothering were desolate, save for a few determined residents following their instincts to either Chantry or tavern. The bell had rung out for morning service a short while prior: a defiant proclamation against the general strangeness. In the distance the windmill leaned like a crooked scarecrow over the town, a spindly silhouette against the jaundiced sky. 

“Are you cold?” Alistair leaned across the cart and took her hand in his. Her small palm was soft, the fingers pliable. The nails had been bitten with practised haste.

“No,” she replied, as he came to the same realisation. “I’m alright.”

“Is it because of your magic?” He eyed her, curious. 

Flora shrugged her shoulder, head turning as the cart passed over the small bridge that leapt the river. 

“Dunno. Maybe?”

His thumb passed over her knuckles in a single, swift stroke; then, realising, he let her hand go as though it were red hot. 

They were nearing the edge of the town now; the buildings were set lower and further apart. Two children ducked and wove within the derelict shell of an old grainstore, careless of their bare feet against the dirt. A fence that skirted the boundary of the town was missing half of its posts; perhaps scavenged by the refugees to prop up makeshift tents. The western road had just come into view when Flora lurched to her feet, clinging to the side of the cart. 

“Stop, she beseeched, almost pitching over the edge as a wheel dipped into a pothole. “Stooop.” 

Leliana, who had been humming to herself as she perched on the front bench, pulled obligingly on the reins.

_ “Quoi de neuf?” _

Flora hoisted herself over a roll of canvas and half-climbed, half-fell from the back of the cart. Her brother-warden eyed her with mild trepidation.

“Where are you going? The last time you went off on your own, you got arrested.”

“I almost forgot something,” she said, with the slight grimace she wore whenever her spirits hissed reproach into her ear. “I’ll be back soon, don’t leave without me!”

Alistair watched her scuttle between the buildings, head down and the loose neck of the coat pulled up around her face. The rich wine-red of her hair stood out like a banner against the drabness of her garb. He stared at the space where she had been for a moment, and then sat back down.

“The Maker works in strange and wonderful ways.”

He resisted the urge to leap from the cart and follow Flora. Biting back a secondary impulse to make a sarcastic retort- he had no desire to argue with the wickedly spiked array in her quiver - Alistair turned to face the lay sister. 

“What do you mean?” he asked, cautiously. 

Leliana let the reins settle on the lean, muscled shelf of her thighs, her eyes far clearer and bluer than the sky overhead. 

“At first I thought that you both seemed far too young to be defending the nation against the Darkspawn,” she said, abandoning reverential artifice. “Your campaign will require a union of political acumen and military expertise: you have neither.”

“Right,” replied Alistair, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Why did you even want to join us then, if we’re such a hopeless cause?”

The woman let out another peal of laughter; the cadence was distinctly Val Royeaux. 

“It was the Maker’s will,” she said, as though it were obvious. “Although I would have been content to stay in Lothering’s Chantry and spend my life in quiet reverence, I was destined for something…. something  _ more. En tout cas,  _ I do not believe your cause to be hopeless.” 

Alistair cast another glance between the buildings. A group of grubby children were squabbling over a scarf in one alleyway; a man slumped nearby, clutching a bottle. The air was so still and bland that it seemed almost impossible that war was coming. He turned his gaze towards the south-west; the Southron Hills were little more than an uneven indigo smear on the horizon.

“You have great strength and presence in combat,” continued the lay-sister confidently; unfazed by his silence as she recalled the bench hurled halfway across the tavern. “I believe that soldiers would follow you into battle, even against such a terrible foe as the Darkspawn.”

“Thanks,” he said, drily. “But I’m no commander. I leave most decisions to my sister-warden.”

_ “Ah, oui.  _ Your  _ ‘sister-warden’,”  _ repeated Leliana, leaning forward to pat the old grey’s sinewy neck. “She looks like a doll that I once coveted as a little girl back in Orlais. My mother wouldn’t buy her for me because it was too costly. She was kept in a glass case; and I said  _ bonjour  _ to her each time that I was sent out on an errand.”

The woman let her sentence hang in the air. Her eyes grew distant as she summoned her younger self; scampering along the polished cobbles of Val Royeaux with orange blossom crushed beneath her bare feet and the Chant drifting between enamelled spires. 

“Anyway,” she said then, head jerking in an imperceptible shake. “Your sister-warden is exquisite and armies would travel half the world at her summons. Are you lovers?”

The back of Alistair’s skull collided with the cart as he startled.

“Wha-  _ no!  _ Why-  _ why _ would you -?”

Leliana laughed, deliberate and disarming. 

“Forgive me. I was curious.”

He willed the crimson flush to stay beneath his collar, squinting purposefully towards the windmill. It leaned like a drunkard over the western part of the town, except it was motionless, one sail bent and broken: Alistair hoped that nobody in Lothering was thinking about grinding flour anyway; not with the horde a thickening line on the horizon. 

“She’s a good healer,” he heard himself say, as Leliana looked at him. “And she has a shield that’s saved my life in battle.”

_ “Hein?” _

“Everyone gets so distracted by what she looks like, they don’t realise how clever she is. Not in the  _ traditional _ way, but...” Alistair flailed for words, not entirely sure where his sentence was leading him. “But… she’s more than just a  _ face.” _ _ _

The corner of Leliana’s mouth curved upwards several degrees. She was about to reply, when a minor commotion surged between the row of buildings towards them.

“Let’s gooooo!” 

Both Leliana and Alistair looked towards the source of the noise. Flora was scuttling towards them, pink-cheeked from the cold air; still buried in the man’s woollen coat. The plump braid bounced behind her like a show pony’s tail and her staff was tucked beneath her arm. Accompanying her was a vast and scowling Qunari, each stride equating three of her scampering steps.

“Let’s go, let’s gooo!” Flora beseeched as she approached the cart, half-appalled and half-excited by her own daring. “Quick, quick! Get in, Aspen!”

The Qunari cast a derisive eye over the weary pack mule and laden cart.

“A warrior is not transported like  _ baggage,”  _ he retorted, bluntly. “It is a dishonourable way to travel. I will keep up.”

“You won’t keep up with our blazing speed,” retorted Flora, accepting an open-mouthed Alistair’s hand as she clambered into the back of the cart. “We’re about to go faster than a flying fish in a stiff breeze! Ha!  _ And we’re off!”  _

They were  _ not _ off. Both her brother-warden and Leliana were staring at her in astonishment. Flora blinked back at them, confused as to why they did not seem to share her urgency. 

“Quick,” she repeated, a faint line furrowing into her brow. “This horse needs to  _ gallop!  _ Like we did when we left the Circle. We have to go,  _ now.” _

“This is a  _ mule,  _ Flo,” Alistair said, trying not to laugh. “It’s not the same as the creatures we rode back then. It goes slowly.”

_ “ _ ARGH!  _ How _ slow?”

“Walking pace?”

She pulled at her face in alarm. “Oh no!”

The Qunari let out a low rumble of scorn. Alistair stared at his sister-warden, suspicion narrowing his eyes. Flora had twisted around to peer back between the buildings in the direction she had come from, fingers curled over the cart’s wooden rail.

“Why? What have you done?”

Flora shot him a doleful look over her shoulder, rubbing her knee.

“Ran through the refugee camp yelling ‘GET OUT, GET OUT, THE DARKSPAWN ARE COMING’,” she confessed, gloomily. “Then broke Aspen out of his cage. I thought we could make a  _ quick getaway.” _

Alistair started to laugh. As if on cue, a cluster of angry guards appeared between the smithy and the derelict grainstore. They set eyes on the cart, and Flora perched in the back of it. She hastily ducked her head behind a crate; it was too late, they had spotted her. 

“There she is! The apostate!”

“Quick, get her before she escapes! Call the Templars!”

From a particularly zealous one:  _ “Burn the witch!”  _

Alistair stopped laughing. He glanced to the side to ensure that his sword was still propped up beside a tightly rolled tent - it was - then swung his gaze towards Leliana. 

“Let’s get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughhh I hate DIY so much!! Have been working on the flat for ages to prepare it for the market. Though I’m so excited to be leaving London and moving back to Wales! Even though it’s all uncertain because I won’t have a job when I get back; I can’t be away from my family and friends any longer, and I miss living by the sea! I feel the same way about it as Flora and Herring haha 
> 
> Anyway, I’ve now spent about 38399374 chapters in Lothering so time to move on hohoho


	35. Introductions

The Lothering guards dared not venture too far from the town’s borders; the sprawl of the refugee camp to the south required (in their opinion) a constant supervisory presence. They also had no desire to argue with the volatile lady Leliana, nor with the vast hulking figure of the Qunari easily keeping pace with the cart. The captain called off the pursuit at the juncture of the northern and western roads; watching the Wardens and their companions shrink into the distance. 

The cart and its passengers continued at leisurely pace along the earthen track. It was turning into a day for good fortune: the sun had finally mustered the energy to disrobe its cloak of cloud and the wind had blown the rain towards the Wilds. The sky was a faded blue; the air had the cold, crisp bite of an apple. Fields, still stubbled from the last harvest of the season, lined the road on both sides. A scattering of bare-branched trees stood out like pencil scratches against a parchment sky. 

Flora, wedged between crates in the back of the cart, waited until a diminishing Lothering was the size of her thumbnail. Deciding that pursuit was now unlikely, she cleared her throat to gain the attention of her companions.

“Alistair,” she announced, changing her mind about standing up as the cart lurched over a pothole. “Lady Lel - Leliana.”

“Just Leliana,  _ s’il vous plait.” _

“This!” Flora flailed her hand proudly to the side. “ _ This _ is our newest friend, Aspen. He’s agreed to help us fight the Darkspawn.”

The Qunari’s lip curled with derision. As the seven-foot tall warrior had predicted, he easily kept pace alongside the cart. He did not look at Flora as she spoke; the small, reddish eyes focused on the road ahead. 

“I am not your  _ friend _ ,” he enunciated in the deep, measured cadence of his homeland. “And I am not  _ Aspen _ . The only correct part of your statement was the latter: I will assist you in your endeavour to end the Blight.”

“What should we call you then?” Flora asked, and was ignored. 

Leliana cast a swift, appraising glance ahead: the road was clear and the platter-flat landscape allowed for no lurking threat. Letting the reins rest in her lap, she turned around fully and gazed at the ash-coloured warrior. Even clad in simple leathers and lacking a weapon, the Qunari would have dominated any foe in single combat with laughable ease. 

“How fascinating,” she murmured, face alive with interest. “Are you a follower of the  _ Qun,  _ or a  _ tal-vashoth?” _

A lip curled in derision; the eyes narrowed to heated red points. 

_ “Vashedan!  _ I am no heathen. It was the word of the  _ Qun  _ that instructed me to break my penance and follow this... creature.” 

He gestured to Flora, who was evidently the  _ creature  _ in question. Flora had no idea what they were talking about, listening to the unfamiliar exchange with her mouth hanging in confusion. Alistair, who possessed a little more knowledge about the races of Thedas, suppressed a groan.

“Great,” he breathed in Flora’s ear, leaning his head to close the distance in height. “We’ve somehow managed to pick up  _ two  _ religious zealots in the span of a day. We might as well call our cause a crusade and be done with it.”

“Eh?” Flora had no idea what her brother-warden was talking about. There was no time to clarify; since the Qunari had now turned his burning-ember stare on her. She sat up a little straighter, feeling her teeth rattle in her head as they lurched over another pothole. 

“Take me to your commander,” he instructed, with the practised assurance of one used to giving orders that were obeyed without question. “We must discuss how best to preserve this nation.”

Flora felt her heart sink several inches in her chest, as though her lungs had become saltwater and unable to bear its weight. The broad muscle of Alistair’s arm tensed against her elbow. 

“Our commander is dead,” she said softly, when it became clear that he would not speak. “He… he was killed at Ostagar. It’s just the two of us Warden-  _ Wardens _ left now.”

She had been about to say  _ Warden-recruits  _ out of habit, but changed her mind at the last moment. From her practical point of view,  _ Warden-recruits  _ had only been an accurate reference when there had existed a hierarchy of  _ junior  _ and  _ senior. _

The Qunari’s face was entirely motionless in response: Flora, as a northerner, admired his stoicism. 

“It’s nice that you want to help us save Ferelden,” she said, when it became clear that no reply was forthcoming. “What should we call you, if it ain’t Aspen?”

He ignored her question, responding instead to the assumption that preceded it. 

“I wish to keep this nation from being destroyed so that it may be invaded in the future by the armies of  _ Par Vollen,  _ as and when the  _ Qun  _ commands.” 

Alistair let out an incredulous half-laugh; even Leliana hid a delicate snort behind elegant fingers. 

“Hm,” replied Flora, doubtfully. “I see. _ ” _

_ Are you sure you wanted me to break him out of the cage? A murdering invader?  _

** _Yes._ **

_ Really?  _

** _Yes. _ **

_ REALLY, though?! _

** _Yes, you tiresome child. _ **

_ He’s definitely meant to be on our side? Not…. the Darkspawn’s?  _

** _Indeed. _ **

_ But we’re the good ones. An invading murderer seems like they ought to be… one of the bad ones.  _

** _Good and bad are mortal concepts._ **

Flora realised that Alistair was talking to her, and refocused her attention on the corporeal world. Leliana had reluctantly returned to steering the mule around a series of potholes, a gleam in her eye. The Qunari had also decided that there was no need to continue the conversation, striding purposefully ahead. The shoulders canted imperceptibly to one side, as though still bearing the weight of a absent weapon. Every so often, his sword-arm would twitch in a reflexive gesture; each time, the motion was impatiently arrested. 

“We’ve certainly gathered an…  _ unusual  _ party of companions,” Alistair was saying, shifting position against the wooden rail of the cart. The space between the crates and packs was so restrictive that he had to fold up the considerable length of his frame to sit; the discomfort alleviated by the fact that he was sharing space with  _ lunch _ . 

“A Qunari, a priestess- ” Flora still did not quite understand the concept of a lay-sister- “a Witch of the Wilds, a mender, my spirits, and a…” 

She trailed off, eyeing him thoughtfully from behind a crate stacked with sourdough loaves. 

“There’s nothing peculiar about you,” she said, after a contemplative moment. “You’re the most  _ normal  _ one out of all of us.” 

There was an infinitesimal pause and then Alistair laughed, swiftly averting his gaze to the pale wash of the heavens overhead. Instead of responding to Flora’s proclamation, he diverted her deftly along a tangent with well-practised ease.

“It’s hardly an army, is it? I’m not sure the Archdemon will lose any sleep over our merry little band.”

“We’ve doubled in size over a week,” she replied, relatively confident with her numbers up to twelve. “Ooh! If we keep doubling in size every week, how many people will we have by trout season?”

_ “Trout  _ season?”

“Spring-ish?” 

Alistair thought for a long moment, brow furrowing into hard lines. Eventually, a short, helpless laugh slid from his throat and he raised a hand in defeat. Neither of the young Wardens were particularly academic. 

“I have absolutely no idea,” he admitted, cheerfully. “I’m not very good at arithmetic. Lessons were never a strong point for me, I always wanted to be outside.”

“At least you can read,” pointed out Flora, beadily. “I can’t even tell which way we’re going.”

They had reached a divergence; a signpost leaned across the crossroads like a wounded man. One wing of wood was labelled:  ** _Lothering; _ ** opposite was  ** _Redcliffe. _ ** There was nothing to the north save for a small and unassuming lake. To the south, in faded, oddly poignant letters:  ** _Ostagar. _ **

Flora leaned over her brother-warden with an ease borne of all they had endured together: Ishal, the death of Duncan, the destruction of the Wardens and their ensuing isolation. As expected, the letters on the sign made no sense to her. They also seemed to squirm about; turning upside down and boldly rearranging themselves. 

“I can’t read  _ none _ of it,” she said, wishing that she had paid more attention in her Circle classes. “Which way is Redcliffe?” 

Alistair did not need to refer to the sign, nor consult the map rolled up in its case. The soil was guide enough: the western road was smeared with clumps of ruddy scarlet mud. The earth that bordered the road still bore signs of the last harvest; crimson lines scored the earth like claw marks. It was just as well that the way forward was obvious: he was distracted by the swell of his sister-warden’s breast pressed against his arm. Flora was still leaning over his lap, eyeballing the signpost with a vague resentment. 

“It’s that way,” he said, wrenching his mind away. “The soil around Redcliffe is rich in iron. Looks like a battlefield after you plough.” 

“Is it true that the river below the castle runs red when it rains?” Leliana asked, turning the mule’s head westwards. “I heard a story, but I know not if there’s any truth to it.” 

Alistair nodded, uncertain whether he was relieved or disappointed that Flora had settled back down against the side of the cart. She was frowning to herself, winding a slender skein of hair around her fingers. 

“I’d say it runs…  _ pinkish _ . I haven’t been back there for a decade though, so you might not want to take my word for it.”

The lay sister seemed as though she were about to ask for elaboration; Alistair, who avoided questions on his past like the speckled plague, hastily averted his eyes. Leliana, the corner of her mouth twisting in a half-smile, spurred the old mule westwards.

The condition of any road within Ferelden was dependent on three factors: firstly, its distance from Denerim, secondly, the wealth of the bannorn, arling or teyrnir through which it ran, and thirdly, the attitude of the resident peer. Some lords let their roads run wild; ignoring the encroach of overgrowth until the disgruntled locals took matters, and scythes, into their own hands. 

Yet Eamon Guerrin had always been conscientious when it came to the condition of his roads. Aware that he was the most prominent noble in the western part of the nation - and that his territory was crucial for Ferelden’s defence, considering their neighbor - he had always personally overseen the maintenance of his thoroughfares. Travelling traders often diverted from the geographically shorter route to take a Guerrin road, aware that it would save them time. 

The first indication that all was not well within the arling of Redcliffe was the number of fallen trees strewn before them. Between them, Alistair and the Qunari had hauled at least a dozen from the road; along with several broken fences and an abandoned, overturned cart. 

“I don’t understand it,” the young Warden said in perplexion, clambering back into the wagon after dragging yet another obstacle from the road. “There hasn’t been a storm for weeks. Why hasn’t Eamon cleared the roads? He’s always been strict with keeping them in good condition, it used to drive Isolde half-mad. ‘ _ ‘Usband, why are you spending coin on paving stones when you should be repairing ze West Tower roof?’”  _

Alistair then remembered that Leliana was perched at the reins and hastily abandoned the crude attempt at an Orlesian accent. 

“The men in the tavern said that he’d been ill,” Flora said, trying to remember exactly how they had phrased it. “Maybe he’s been too poorly to think about the roads.” 

She passed her brother-warden the loaf of sourdough he had been working his way through before yet another fallen tree demanded his attention.

“He must have been very ill for a long time,” Alistair replied, half-to himself. “Shit. Ah, sorry, lay-sister.”

Swearing in the Templar monastery had always resulted in a penance if overheard. Preparing himself for a word of reproval from their zealous new companion, he was astonished when she waved a lean-fingered hand in an ‘ _ it’s nothing’  _ gesture.

They passed a ruined watchtower, tumbling in a slow cascade of stone as birds flew from the exposed ribs. The farmlands that surrounded Lothering had yielded to the undulating grassland that characterised middle Ferelden. Bare crags of rock broke through the earth, stained a ruddy brown from the iron-rich soil. It was cold, but this was the cost of a bright and cloudless day and so the travellers were content to pay it. 

Lunch was taken beside a narrow twist of a stream; a creeping tributary that fed the vast inland sea known as Lake Calenhad. The lake itself was still many leagues away, but they had seen many of its supplementary branches. The Qunari refused food, choosing to stand near the wagon with his eyes fixed on the road ahead, rigid as any Tevinter effigy. 

Alistair held his breath when Leliana chose to sit beside them on the damp grass; to his relief, she showed no inclination to pray before eating, or  _ sermonise  _ at them. She had neatly packed away the trappings of her Chantry garb; the phial dangling from her belt now wafted the pungent scent of bow oil instead of incense. The only outer gesture of her faith was the string of prayer beads wrapped around her wrist. 

Flora, slightly apprehensive of their zealous new addition, offered her the last of the smoked salmon.The lay sister accepted it with a grace that could only come from either noble birth or explicit training. She turned her pale blue eyes on the mage; deftly popping a gelatinous pink slice on her tongue.

“I am  _ aflame  _ with curiosity.” 

Flora looked confused. Alistair saw her complete a swift up-down appraisal of the woman; before coming to the conclusion that there was no part of her on fire. He stifled a laugh, reaching out to remove a dried curl of leaf from the sleeve of his sister-warden’s coat.

“You are from the northern coast,” the lay sister continued: the low, slightly flat cadence of Flora’s voice was unmistakable. “But, which part…? I cannot put my finger on it.” 

“Herring.”

If Leliana was surprised at the unusual name, she hid it well; the composure of her face was maintained flawlessly. 

“I do not know it. Who are your liege lords?” 

Flora had the answer to this: everyone in Herring knew - and resented - the family to whom they owed taxes. On the first day of autumn, a man clad in royal blue livery would arrive to take a tenth of the profit from the summer’s yield. One inflammatory year, he had been assailed by angry villagers wielding rods and boat-hammers; after that, the tax collector was accompanied by armed escort. 

“Cuzland,” she said, rubbing the fingers not clutching a bread roll in idle circles over her sore knee. “They live in some big house in Hiver. I ain’t never seen it, my dad never let me go far from the village. He used to take me out on the boat when the rentsman came.” 

She took a bite, attention wandering. 

“The Couslands,” repeated Leliana, softly.  _ “Well, _ there’s a coincidence. There’s been some trouble in Highever in recent times, or so the rumours say. I heard some whispers in Denerim. Perhaps nothing more than gossip, though… perhaps not.”

But Flora had stopped listening. She was not interested in nobles, nor their families.  _ Cousland  _ was akin to a curse-word in Herring; it stood for the nobles who shared their profit while taking none of the hardship. Instead, her attention had been caught by a sudden ripple in the shadow.

Without advertising her presence, the witch appeared between the naked trees; the arched brow and pursed lip accessories to a general wariness. The yellow cat-eye passed swiftly over Leliana - pausing briefly on the prayer-beads wrapped around the woman’s sinewy wrist - and then settled on the Qunari, motionless as the surrounding trunks. The arched brow lifted a fraction higher into the dark hairline.

Flora was so excited to introduce Morrigan to their - not one! but  _ two!  _ \- new allies, that she choked on her mouthful of bread and was unable to speak at all. Alistair, eyeing his sputtering sister-warden, dutifully stepped in. It was the first time that they had seen the Wilds woman since they had shared the tavern chamber. 

“Morrigan,” he said, biting back any snide observation that he might have made as he patted the slender span of Flora’s shoulders _ .  _ “As you’ve probably noticed, our party has grown by two- ”

“Well, ‘tis  _ obvious,  _ I am not blind,” retorted Morrigan, remaining poised between the tree trunks. “And it is a pity that it has not grown by two  _ thousand;  _ then we might have some chance of ending this Blight.” 

Alistair wished that he had made the catty remark after all. Morrigan smirked, though she still did not venture beyond the boundary of the trees. 

“This is Leliana,” he said, forcing neutrality into the introduction. “She’s a- a lay-sister, and a…a… ” 

He trailed off, realising that they knew very little about what Leliana  _ was _ : except that she was Orlesian by birth but Fereldan by blood, and that her arrows could pin a man by his ear or knock him to the ground. There was an infinitesimal pause before Leliana smiled; unconsciously flexing her shoulders like a snake shedding a skin. 

“Before I entered the service of the Maker, I was a bard,” she said, soft and wistful. “Of some skill, even if I do say so myself.” 

Alistair started, eyeing their new companion with a new guardedness. He had heard of bards before: most Fereldan children went to sleep with tales of their exploits ringing between their ears. 

“You’re a  _ bard?” _

“What’s a bard?” 

Flora had managed to swallow the lump of soggy bread and - eyes watering - interjected with a curious enquiry. 

“Courtier,” replied Leliana, at the same time that Alistair said, in far more ominous tones:  _ “Spy.”  _

The two looked at one another: she smiled pleasantly, he pursed the handsome lips and frowned. Flora looked between them, absentmindedly tearing the last of her bread between her fingers. 

“I don’t know what a courtier is either. Are you a spy for General Mac Tir?” 

“Or for Orlais?” Alistair added for good measure, though this was far from likely. Even if their capricious western neighbour had heard of the massacre at Ostagar and death of the king - which was likely, given that the news had travelled an equal distance east to Denerim - there was little reason why two unimportant junior recruits should capture their attention. 

Leliana spread out her hands, palms facing upwards. The skin was a chorus of contrast: the lean fingers were ringed with sinew and callous, while the wrist was scented with fragrant lotion and the nails kept trim and polished. It was the hand of both a servant and a lady. 

“I am no spy,” she said, and there was no disassembly in the clear blue stare. “Loghain Mac Tir despises Orlais. He would sooner employ the most inept,  _ bumbling  _ Fereldan over myself.” 

Alistair glanced swiftly sideways at Flora. Now that he had studied her face, he could see the emotion beyond the mask of cool, eternally composed indifference. There was a faint line etched across her forehead, set just above the gap between her brows. 

“Eh,” Flora replied after a moment, with the usual staunch practicality. “Can’t prove nothin’ with words. If you’re telling the truth, that’s fine. If you  _ are  _ a spy…” she put the last of the bread into her mouth and spoke through her chewing, “then you can report all that we’re doing to General Mac Tir so that he knows his days are numbered.” 

Alistair hid a smile. Leliana bowed her head in acquiescence; retracting her hands. 

Morrigan, however, had grown bored of the interrogation. Her attention had been captured by something far more enthralling: the vast, inert figure beside the wagon. This drew her from the trees: she drifted across the clearing like smoke, yellow eyes alight. 

“What’s  _ this?”  _

“Aspen,” said Flora, then caught himself. “No,  _ not _ Aspen. He won’t tell me his name.”

“I care not for his  _ name,”  _ Morrigan replied scornfully, coming to a halt several yards from the Qunari. Her bare feet sank into the damp earth; mud caked between the crimson-capped toes and between the beads slung around her ankle. 

“You ought to recruit more of this sort. Such  _ brute muscle  _ ought to put some fear into the Darkspawn, if indeed they are even  _ capable  _ of such. Fewer loyal Chantry mice - ” she cast a contemptuous glance at Leliana, “- and more true warriors.” 

“I may be a Sten,” retorted the Qunari, lip curling. “But I am no mindless brute. I am - was  _ once _ an advisor to the Arishok.” 

It was the first time that the man’s terse composure faltered; manifesting in the slightest hesitation before the correction. The moment passed in the space between heartbeats, unnoticed by all except the bard. Leliana, who had already scribed much about both young Wardens on the wax tablet of her mind, added a column for the giant swordsman.

“And the Arishok used to call you…” prompted Flora, receiving nothing but a vaguely contemptuous stare in response. 

“I have always wanted to meet a Qunari,” continued Morrigan blithely, as if nobody else had spoken. “Although I thought that they grew horns from their temples. Did you meet with an accident, or were you born lacking?”

The Qunari eyed her for a moment, then set his back to them; stare trained on the road ahead. Flora was gratified that at least their newest companion was ignoring them both equally. 

Lunch had been eaten and the party set out again, mindful that they only had a few hours of sunlight left. The road west was streaked with ruddy clay; large clumps clung to the wheels of the cart and left a bloody trail in their wake. Morrigan now deigned to accompany them more openly, though she avoided conversation by travelling in the bristling, beady-eyed form of a raven. 

_ “If the Qunari doesn’t give us a name soon,”  _ Flora whispered ominously in Alistair’s ear as they rolled down the road .  _ “I’m going to call him Gulper Eel.”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The funny thing is, Sten has already told Flora his name at least three times! She just misheard “a Sten” as Aspen, lol. 
> 
> I wanted to make a few things clearer with this rewrite: firstly, making it more obvious that it’s a coming of age story for Flora (not in terms of actual age, but in maturity/experience, then I wanted to make them warier of Leliana at first, and I also wanted Morrigan to start off much more hostile before gradually warming up. Haha run on sentence there but I hope it makes sense! I thought it would be a more realistic dynamic than having them all get on quickly.
> 
> Thank you for all the kind and lovely reviews! I want to reply to them all individually when I get some time - it’s crazy here at the moment, husband is in Seattle for work so I’m looking after the baby on my own, plus the flat is on the market so I have to keep it spotless (with an 8 month old and two longhair cats! Fucking impossible!)
> 
> Anyway, this chapter was running on for ages so I chopped it here! I’m trying to keep each one at about 3k ish words.


	36. The Redcliffe Road

There was a gradual creep of cloud overhead, but much of the rain had already fallen on the higher slopes to the west. The agricultural landscape rose and fell in languid slopes, like a child’s meandering attempt at a straight line. A two-cart road curved through a tartan of sallow green, greyish-yellow and dun; the field-boundaries marked by hut or heaped stone. Much of the ancient forests had been felled for man’s cultivation, though isolated clumps of trees still grew amidst the farmland. Shepherd’s huts built in the antiquated beehive shape stood guard over scattered arrays of livestock. 

The surroundings were so quiet and unassuming that it seemed impossible to imagine them riven by war. This thought occurred to Alistair as he scraped red clay from his boot after dragging yet another windblown tree from the road. Before clambering back into the cart, he took a searching look at the arling that encircled them: naught but typical farmland. The middle part of Ferelden lacked the climatic mountainscapes and plunging valleys of the west and south: the landscape was more subdued, the peaks and troughs gentler, the colours muted. It was less dramatic, but more harmonious; and the further north they travelled from the diseased lesion of Ostagar, the more difficult it was to believe that there really  _ was  _ a Blight. 

“Flo,” he said drily, hoisting himself back into the moving cart as Leliana nudged the the mule forward. “Hey, Flora. Fine weather for a Darkspawn invasion!”

The bird-Morrigan let out an irritable squawk, inching several inches along the rail. Flora looked up from his hole-ridden sock, a needle trailing thread between her teeth. 

“Eh? Oh.”

She put down the mending and took a slow view of the scenery that rolled in all directions around them. Nostalgia for her northern home jabbed her belly like the prick of a sea urchin: she missed the rough-hewn cathedral of the cliffs and bleak sweeps of stony beaches; she missed the harsh weathering of the landscape as the sea gnawed away at the coast. 

“It looks nice,” she offered through clamped teeth, needle bobbing with each word.

_ “Too ‘ _ nice’,” her brother-warden replied grimly, leaning against the rail and eyeing the bare stubble of a freshly-plowed field. “No one out there is going to believe us that there’s a Blight. They’ll think us mad. I bet Mac Tir is telling the Landsmeet that it was just a few Darkspawn swarming to the surface, and that the Wardens exaggerated the threat.” 

Flora took the needle out of her mouth and anchored it in the sock, setting the clump of wool to the side. 

_ The Landsmeet are some sort of council, aren’t they? I overheard a conversation about them in the Circle once. _

** _Yes. Well remembered._ **

“The Landsmeet don’t need to believe us,” she said, eyeing the back of the Qunari’s head as he marched before them. “Nor does anyone  _ out there -” _ she waved a hand vaguely towards the fields. “We just need the mages, the dwarves, the elves; and we don’t have to prove nothin’ to them. They promised to help us.”

Flora patted her breast and heard the reassuring rustle of the treaties, dry and papery against her skin. 

“The people will believe when the Darkspawn hordes ravage their towns and slaughter their loved ones,” added Leliana ominously from the front of the cart. “The Maker does not like His warnings ignored.” 

It was a good thing that Morrigan was in the form of a raven, and so unable to deliver the scathing observation that must have blazed within her avian skull. Slightly open-mouthed Flora gazed at the archer’s lean back, the sinewy line of muscle defined against her tunic. Herring was not a pious place - there was scant time for it - and the Circle paid lip service to the Chantry for the benefit of the Templar attendants. She had never met anyone so candid about their devotion before; who professed their faith loudly and with utter assurance. 

Alistair’s attention had also been caught by the zealous response. He too looked at Leliana, seeing the steely length of her spine and the quivering fervour of her clutch on the reins. 

_ Hm,  _ he thought to himself, grimly.   
  


* * *

They made good time, following the red-stained way until the light waned and it was no longer safe to travel. In usual times, the Redcliffe arling boasted roads that were clear and free from debris; some sections even lit with lanterns hung from wooden-posts. Yet these were strange times, the arl was sick and the roads had been neglected for months. When the mule narrowly avoided a pothole the size of a cook-pot, Leliana suggested that they make camp for the night. 

The cart stopped in the hollow between two hills, a short distance from the road and near the soft gurgle of a buried stream. A string of bare-branched trees provided shelter from a breeze that showed no sign of abating. 

Thanks to the bard and her assortment of goods, the company was able to make a proper camp for the first time. Morrigan did little to help construct the tents, but deigned to light the campfire once some branches had been correctly arranged. The tents were no more than a length of plain canvas slung over poles, yet infinitely preferably to sleeping in hayricks, or half-crumbled structures. 

The Qunari turned a sour eye over their provisions, stalking off into the meagre woods to seek out his own supper. Flora had gone to investigate the narrow stream, hopefully clutching her improvised hook and line.

Alistair listened to his sister-warden splashing around in the shallows; hidden from view by the slope of the land. He then turned his attention to Leliana, who was sitting near the fire and methodically peeling the gloves away from her fingers. He had never seen anyone manage to sit elegantly cross-legged before, but the bard managed it with laudable ease. 

“I’m sorry that I did not bring enough tents with me,” she said, glancing at the three erected around the fire. “I was unsure how many would be accompanying us. I can share with Flora, if you wish to share with the Sten.”

“His name is  _ Sten? _ Actually, wait, never mind.” Alistair shook his head. “I’ll be sleeping with Flora -  _ next  _ to Flora,” he clarified hastily, feeling his skin prickle under her curious stare. “Morrigan finds her own place to sleep - probably in some cold and slimy hole - so you won’t have to share with…  _ Sten,  _ was it?”

“I thought that you two weren’t lovers?” enquired Leliana, working through a fraying braid of hair. “There’s no need to be discreet. I was never a sworn and cloistered priestess. I am worldly.” 

She allowed herself a wistful half-smile, fingers motionless for a moment. 

“We  _ aren’t  _ lovers,” repeated Alistair patiently, grateful that this time, the blush had stayed below his collar. “But when we were in the Warden camp, back in Ostagar, we shared a tent. It’s just - it’s just the way it used to be. Duncan - our commander - said… ” 

He trailed off, distracting himself with the fire. It was not burning evenly and was in danger of collapsing; he nudged the larger branches around with a stick until it settled back into place. A gleaming flurry of sparks rushed upwards, briefly illuminating the bare branches before dissipating. Leliana watched him, her thoughtful eyes deepened to navy in the twilight.

“Anyway,” Alistair continued, a glimpse of the woman’s prayer beads shaking loose a memory. “I have a question for you, lay sister.” 

The bard raised an eyebrow:  _ ask.  _

“How do you feel about mages?” 

The laugh emerged from Leliana’s throat in a crystalline flurry of notes. Somewhere in the hollow of the hill, they could hear Flora splashing around and muttering darkly to herself.

“Not mages like the witch - I think we all know how we feel about her,” Alistair continued drily, glancing towards the submerged stream. “But harmless ones, like my sister-warden. She’s not dangerous, she’s a healer.”

“Ah.” Leliana smiled, fastening a sliver of leather around the newly tied braid. “You are worried that I will preach damnation at her when we break our fast, or summon Templars when we arrive at Redcliffe.”

_ Or stick an arrow in her throat when she least expects it,  _ thought Alistair, the blood running cold in his veins as he recalled the bard’s unfaltering, needlepoint aim. 

“I do not share the Chantry’s view on mages,” she replied, letting the slender braid slip from her fingers. “I have known many, and some were better souls than me. Your sister-warden spent last night mending those who were poor and desperate, and asked for nothing in return. What could be more pleasing to the Maker than charitable works?”

“Right.” He eyed her for a moment, then nodded. “Good. I’m… glad to hear it.”

Flora reappeared then, empty handed and sulking. She collapsed onto the cold grass beside Alistair, sinking gloomily inside the loose grey folds of her coat. 

_ “Freshwater fish,”  _ she grumbled in response to his raised brow.  _ “Southerner  _ freshwater fish. They don’t act like fish ought to.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, looking at the profile of her fine-boned, frowning face.

“They’re more  _ wilful.”  _

He laughed, which was the wrong response. Flora shot him a dark look, then hunched over her knees and glowered into the fire. Leliana, who had not yet been exposed to the spectrum of their mender’s eccentricities, blinked. Still, a consummate professional, she swiftly arranged her features back into the mask of bland pleasantness; adding several strips of salted beef to the skillet. For several minutes, the only noises came from the dancing fire, accompanied by the soft, rustling concert of a wood at night. Somewhere within the isolated clump of trees, Morrigan had made her home within the hollow of a trunk; or perhaps curled up in an abandoned nest.

“Hey, Flo.” Alistair turned his attention from the hissing strips of beef. “The Qunari’s name is  _ Sten.”  _

As though summoned, the Qunari himself emerged from between the bare treetrunks; bearing two dangling rabbits and the usual scowl. Years spent in a cohesive military unit had conditioned the Qunari to contribute to party endeavours, even when the company was less than desirable.

“STEN,” squawked Flora with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, delighted that at least one mystery had been solved. _ “Sten!”  _

Sten shot her a look of disgust, then ignored her. One of the rabbits came coursing towards the fire; by the time that Alistair’s hand rose, Leliana had snatched it whip-quick from the air. Alistair was delighted at the prospect of both salted beef  _ and  _ rabbit for dinner. He looked around for a knife, but the lay sister had already produced a most unholy looking blade from her jerkin. The sharpened steel flashed like a silverfish darting through a stream of light. 

“Do you want to sit with us?” Flora asked the Qunari, as Leliana set to work skinning and jointing. 

“No.” 

Flora felt a twinge of nostalgia for Herring, where  _ no  _ was heard thrice as often as yes. She reached down and pulled off her wet boots, propping them in front of the fire. Beside her, Alistair had his sword resting across his thighs, sharpening the steel with a small whet.

The soft sibilant scrape of stone against metal was strangely comforting, accompanied by the snap and crackle of the fire. The naked trees allowed a good view of the surrounding fields; the rural patchwork loaned a milky flux by a low-hanging moon. Somewhere nearby, hidden in the moss, the submerged stream gurgled like a newborn. The scent of roasted rabbit drifted up with the smoke; charred and visceral. 

An owl called to its mate as Leliana portioned out the meat, sliding the chunks onto plates produced from a small, lockable chest. The plates were weighty: moulded from good-quality silver and their rims engraved with entwined  _ fleurs-de-lys.  _ There was a carved pattern at their centre, raised just enough to be discernible to the touch. Until the plate was cleared of food, the carving remained hidden. 

_ I think that this is the most expensive thing I’ve ever held,  _ thought Flora as she took the plate, holding it gingerly with the tips of her fingers.  _ I can’t concentrate on my food. I might drop it.  _

** _It’s a plate. _ **

_ It’s probably worth more than Herring! _

Beside Flora, Alistair was devouring his rabbit with notable enthusiasm. Despite her failure to catch any fish, she was pleased to see her brother-warden so content. He caught her smile from the tail of his eye and grinned; brushing a stray drip from the broad jut of his chin. 

“Are you laughing at me? I can’t help my ravenous appetite.”

“I’m happy that you’re happy,” she replied honestly, carefully setting her plate down and looking around for the waterskin she had filled from the stream. The campfire was so bright that the world around seemed darker by contrast; they could have been a lantern-lit ship encircled by the black mass of the ocean. On the western horizon, the distant shore of Lake Calenhad caught the moonlight like spilled oil.

Alistair felt the broad grin relax into a smile; his gaze lingering on his sister-warden as she sat cross-legged on the grass. The man’s coat swamped the neat, compact proportions of her frame; she had rolled the sleeves up to her elbows. The firelight picked out filaments of copper in her hair; lines of light tracing through the untidy braid. He wanted to ask her if Duncan’s spirit ever appeared to her in the arcane maelstrom of the Fade; and, if so, whether he took the form of intangible shade, or a man’s solid flesh and bone.

“Who do you have?” he asked, shaking the disconcerting thought from his head as he mopped his plate clean with a rag of sourdough. 

She blinked at him. “Eh?”

Alistair held up the plate, showing the profile of a man etched into the silver base. The engraving was skilful; the hawkish features distinct. 

“I’ve got Kordillus Drakon. What does the writing say? _ ‘I channel Scattered Light into Order’.” _

“Oh.” Flora retrieved her own plate from the grass and tilted it towards the fire. Sepia light rippled across the silver, as though the flame had become liquid and spilled onto the dish. A bent figure clutched his abdomen, crudely depicted on the plate’s face. 

“I don’t know who that is. And I can’t read it.”

“Let me see.” Alistair, veteran of a decade in a monastery, peered at the plate. “That’s Lesym Wyne, the Loyal.  _ ‘I speak His Word’” _

Flora looked closer, her brow furrowing. 

“What’s wrong with his belly?”

“He was disemboweled by Avvar tribesmen,” interjected Leliana, casting a fond look at the plate. “Whilst on a mission to convert them.”

A wide-eyed Flora put the plate gingerly back down on the grass. Alistair snorted, stretching out the muscled length of his frame as he leaned back on his elbows. 

“Guts hanging out, lovely,” he remarked, raising an eyebrow. “Just the thing to put you in the mood for dinner. Who have you got on yours?”

“I always choose my favourite martyr,” Leliana said, with a small sigh of satisfaction. “Our Lady Andraste:  _ O, Take Me To Thy Side!’”  _

The plate depicted an etched nest of curling flame, with only the face and desperate, stretching arms of a figure visible in their midst. Flora shivered, the corners of her mouth turning down. Compassion gave a sigh in the corner of her mind, turning around and resettling like a disturbed cat. 

“Gives you an appetite, does it?” Alistair enquired mildly, stacking his plate atop Flora’s. “I think I prefer my platter plain and boring.” 

“Me too,” his sister-warden agreed, somberly. “Also I prefer them with trout on them, but the southern fish _weren’t cooperating.”_

They retired shortly afterwards, parting into their separate tents. Alistair felt a brief throb of anxiety: would his sister-warden quail at this new intimacy? He and Flora had shared the same canvas before, but with a dozen others snoring loudly beside them. They had slept an elbow’s length apart in ruined buildings; airy, open spaces perforated by the wind. Sharing a few feet beneath a discreet veil of canvas seemed a different beast altogether. 

Flora, ignorant of the apprehension he had ascribed to her, rinsed out her mouth and crawled into the tent. Their packs were already piled at the near end; blankets and pallet mattresses in a serpentine tangle nearby. Her boots, stiff and smoky from the fire, were left propped outside like inanimate sentries. 

“I think your feet are going to stick out,” she observed, burrowing into the shadowy nest of blankets like a crab digging through the sand. “They don’t make tents for people your length.” 

“Shit.” Alistair, following, had already knocked his tawny head against a pole. “You’re right. I’ll have to sleep curled up.”

Halfway in he paused, bent awkwardly like some old dowager. Flora eyed him, the blankets pulled up to her chin and the vestiges of firelight playing across her face. Alistair was so broad about the shoulder that he seemed to take up the majority of the tent, especially when hovering above her in an awkward half-crouch. 

“Eh?” 

“There’s only one pillow. I’ll just - sleep on my arms.” 

“Share it with me.” Flora made room, wriggling several inches to the left. “I ain’t got lice, I promise.”

Alistair turned himself around - awkwardly - then settled on the pallet. His head was inches from hers on the pillow; he could feel the warmth of her exhalation against his ear. 

Flora peered at her brother-warden’s profile: the proud jaw, the strong jut of the nose, the hair that had become progressively more dishevelled over the course of the day. Over his right shoulder rose the water-stained slope of canvas; with the two of them, and their packs, there was little room to spare. Firelight punctuated the loosely draped entrance, catching the dapple of alchemical green in his eye.

“Want me to move over more?” she asked sleepily, the words punctuated by a yawn. “My hair is too big. I’ll cut it off.” 

Alistair snorted back a laugh, aware of the others settling down in the tents nearby. Leliana was murmuring to herself several yards away: her prayers muffled by two layers of canvas. He assumed that Morrigan had found some perch in the line of trees beyond their tents; he did not presume to guess at the Qunari’s nighttime routine. 

“I’m the one taking up all the space,” he said, glancing down at his protruding ankles. “At least I’m wearing two pairs of socks.”

“Night creatures will nibble your toes,” Flora whispered ominously through the shadow. “They’ll  _ eat your feet.” _

Alistair snorted, turning his head towards her without thinking. The breath caught in his throat, snared on a fisherman’s hook. He wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to the exquisite architecture of her face; or if he would remain eternally unbalanced by the rawness of her beauty, like a sudden swift current in the shallows. 

“I hope not,” he said at last, grateful that the words emerged sounding somewhat normal. “I’m not sure how well I could fight sitting down.”

She smiled at him and he had to return his gaze to the seam in the canvas overhead, swallowing hard.

While he recovered his composure, Flora fidgeted beneath the blanket. It had been a long day, but she found herself still restless; thoughts rattling around the corners of her skull like clay marbles. In an attempt to distract herself, she focused on the array of noise beyond the canvas. The fire between the tents was chewing through the last of its fuel. It hissed and spat with vehemence, as though aware that its time was almost spent. Accompanying it was the soft, melodic murmur of Leliana’s reverence. Flora could not understand what the lay sister was saying; it might have been Orlesian, or an archaic verse of Kingstongue. 

_ I think we’ve accomplished a lot today,  _ she thought to herself, feeling Alistair shift position beside her.  _ We’ve gained two new allies and a cart of supplies, thanks to Sister Leliana. It’s lucky that she wanted to join us. _

** _Yes. How... fortunate that the woman experienced a prophetic dream to coincide with your arrival. A dream that strongly encouraged her to assist you. _ **

It took Flora several moments to infer the meaning. 

_ Oh! But she thinks that was a vision from the Maker.  _

** _Yes._ **

_ But it was from you? _

** _Yes._ **

_ Isn’t that a bit… sneaky?  _

** _Ingrate!_ **

She could feel her general-spirit’s disapproval as a clammy stripe of seaweed settling on the back of her neck. 

_ I am grateful! Grateful for Lady Leliana, and her cart of helpful things, and her bow, and her… set of unappetising plates. It’s just-  _

** _???_ **

_ Never mind. What’s happening in Lothering? Are people leaving?  _

But her spirits had fallen wilfully silent. Flora sighed, then pulled the coat more tightly around her shoulders. Closing her eyes, she waited patiently for the shadowy anchor of sleep to drag her down through the Veil. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: The plates with the Chantry martyrs are inspired by a set of 16th century goblets I once saw with different saints carved on them! Kordillus Drakon was the man who founded the official Chantry (technically not a martyr, but I headcanon he worked himself/stressed himself to death in the process of creating it!), and Andraste is the most famous one obviously. I made up Lesym Wyne, though, I couldn’t find any other named Chantry martyrs (though I didn’t have time to do huge research so please correct me if I’m wrong!)
> 
> I love writing on the road/camp scenes! This is an added bit - the original story had them travelling from Lothering to Redcliffe in one day, oops! On foot as well, since I only gave them a pack mule in the original. So they must have been sprinting the entire way lol. 
> 
> I also love it when Sten ignores Flora, or looks at her in disgust!! I don’t know why I find it so funny. I think it’s because male characters are naturally disposed to be nice to her due to her appearance, but Sten just finds her ridiculous/annoying, which is refreshing and really fun to write lol! Also, I’m not happy at the fact that my phone autocorrects male to Male, but not female to Female - wtf?!?!! 
> 
> Thank you for the reviews!!! So much. I do barely get time to write these days so I’m a lot slower and crappier at responding. It feels like there aren’t enough hours in the day! 
> 
> also looking back at my chapters, I realise there’s a total divergence between the style of the story content (serious, trying to sound like an actual writer!) and my author’s notes (LOL wtf omg haha! im 12! Not really, but that’s the impression lol!. I think I exhaust my brain when I’m writing the content, so I have 0 brain cells left when I’m writing the author note at the end haha I hope it’s not too annoying!
> 
> I wanted to incorporate more marine themed references too as a nod to Flora’s character! Hopefully I haven’t gone OVERBOARD with them (!!!!!;D)


	37. The Giants Of Highever

The campfire clung to life for several hours, before subsiding into a messy heap of embers and charred ash. The muted ochre glow, hidden by the lie of the landscape and a line of ragged trunks, evaded the attention of a band of armed men riding southeast to Lothering. Rumour winged its way swiftly to the capital these days; the news of errant Wardens had already reached Mac Tir’s ear. 

Flora woke abruptly in the monochromatic hour before dawn; with a strange, metallic taste in her mouth and dread draped over her like a burial shroud. Her mind felt rattled, as though someone had grabbed her by the shoulders and shaken her until her brain had loosened from the moorings within her skull. 

_ Did I have a bad dream?  _

She was perturbed: usually, her spirits protected her from the mundane terrors of sleep. It had been years since the last, but she had woken from it in a similar manner. 

** _A nightmare? Not exactly. _ **

_ Ehh? What do you mean?  _

Her general-spirit was oddly evasive. Flora inhaled the warmth of her brother-warden’s shoulder, blinking as the tent interior came into soft, colourless focus. Their packs, and Alistair’s weapons emerged from the shadow as a heap of indistinct grey; the flaps of canvas at the end of the tent parted by a thin wedge of light. She was curled against Alistair like a prawn, his palm rested lightly on the back of her neck. He was snoring, his mouth open, and he looked younger in sleep.

_ If it wasn’t a nightmare, what was it?  _ she persisted, rubbing her woollen toes together beneath the blanket. The hard, muscled bulk of her brother-warden was reassuring; he lay beside her like a small mountain range.

** _A vision. _ **

Flora was astonished. 

_ A vision! Visions come to important people. Not… people like me.  _

** _A vision which has sought to penetrate your mind for some time. We have been shielding you from it. _ **

Her general’s tone suggested that it had not been it’s own choice to protect her; but the direction of Flora’s other spirit. Compassion had been wandering the voids and valleys of the Fade for generations before her general had died a mortal death; it was infinitely more powerful and it’s will inviolable. 

** _But no longer. It must take root._ **

Flora did not like the sound of  _ visions,  _ let alone  _ visions taking root _ . Thanks to her protective spirits, she had always experienced a peaceful coexistence with the Fade, untroubled by demons or other malevolent energies. Nothing entered her mind save for what they permitted; it had been so for the entirety of her existence. 

_ I don’t want to be the kind of person who receives visions,  _ she thought in alarm.

There was no reply. After brooding ferociously for several minutes, Flora decided to distract herself by preparing the fire for breakfast. It had been five years since she had last woken up in Herring, but her time in the Circle had not erased old habits. Her father and the other fishermen used to set out at sunrise to catch the dawn tide; they broke their fast during the blue hour and it was the child Flora’s first job of the day to refill the firepit. She was sent, wobbling on skinny legs and bleary-eyed, along the beach to scavenge driftwood. If there was none to be found, she would heave out some chopped logs from the woodshed. Sticking her small fingers in her mouth to mend the splinters, the little girl thrust the fuel into the flaking iron crucible that held the remnants of last night’s blaze However, it was never difficult to leave her ‘bed’ in Herring: the child had slept inside the riveted wood of an overturned barrel, beneath a torn piece of sackcloth. When she had outgrown the barrel, she had slept on the floor. The younger Flora had never woken up warm, or even comfortable; but then again, nobody in Herring ever did. It was part of the daily hardship that moulded the unique northern temperament; like the waves gnawing away at the soft shell of the cliffs until their old granite bones were exposed.

Now, Flora was astonished at how reluctant she found herself to move. Leliana’s blankets were dense and tightly woven; their heaviness pressed her into the pallet. Alistair’s palm rested warm on the back of her neck, the fingers curving along the contour of the skin. 

_ Get up _ , she told herself, sternly _ . You are not a limpet. You are not STUCK. _

Her body ignored her, curling up even tighter within the nest of blankets. 

_ Order me to get up,  _ she entreated her spirits, sleepily.  _ My legs won’t listen. _

** _Not our prerogative. Get yourself up._ **

_ Pre...pre- whaa? _

Alistair felt his sister-warden fidgeting against his ribs. He opened one eye, squinting to create some sense out of the coalescence of shadow within the tent. Hair spilled over the blankets beside him like red wine; Flora’s hopeful braid had not survived the night. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“I’m going to build the fire,” she whispered reluctantly, yawning. “It’s gone out. We need to cook breakfast.”

Alistair’s thumb traced a slow circle on the back of her neck. Neither one acknowledged it; nor did he stop. 

“It’s not dawn yet, Flo,” he murmured, darting a sidelong glance at the sliver of grey light between the entrance folds. “Get some more sleep. You barely had any last night.”

She mouthed protest but did not move; eyes wandering over the strong bones that made up her brother-warden’s face. The lack of light inverted his colouring: tawny skin and bronze hair transformed to mineral paleness, as if the features were sculpted on the facade of a Tevinter temple. 

“Sleep,” Alistair instructed, more forceful this time. “I’m not letting you out of this tent until the sun is up.”

He kept his stare on her, his thumb now brushing back the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. Flora gazed at him for a thoughtful moment, then leaned her forehead against his shoulder in acquiescence.

The narrow wedge of grey between the canvas folds began to lighten in imperceptible increments; thin fingers of sunlight creeping within the tent. One ray hit the edge of Alistair’s shield, and splintered into a dozen gleaming points. Alistair watched the flecks of light dance against the canvas, unable to follow his own instruction and return to sleep. His fingers had crept up to cradle the back of his sister-warden’s head as she slept against his shoulder; her breath warming his neck. He could feel the curve of her skull in his palm, fragile as a bird beneath the chaos of her hair. 

Eventually, his thoughts began to wander. His mind glanced swiftly away from Duncan -  _ I have been kissed,  _ she had said - and settled on the undertaking ahead. As much as the young man tried to avoid pessimistic rumination, the enormity of their task weighed on him like the old leadstone breastplates worn before smiths had learnt how to bend steel to their will. 

_And now we have assassins set on us as well, _he thought to himself, glumly. _Bounties on our heads. Loghain_ _Mac Tir is hunting us down like halla in the woods. _

“Eh?” This was northerner-speak for:  _ what’s wrong?  _

Flora was peering at him from down by his shoulder. She had been woken by a shaft of sun moving across her face; the tent now filled with jaundiced light. 

“To make a comparison you’d appreciate,” her brother-warden said, half-smiling without humour. “It feels like Mac Tir has got a net around us.”

“A net?”

“Mm. One that’s closing in.” 

Flora propped herself up on her elbows beside him, her hair falling in a torrent of autumn around the folds of the overlarge coat. She inspected her fingernails as she spoke, each oval small and gnawed. 

“There’s no  _ net,” _ she said thoughtfully, nibbling at a ragged edge. “No net. There’s just… holes between rope. We’re small enough to swim through them.” 

“And when we’re no longer small enough to escape?”

Flora turned her pale eyes on him: the grey stare cold and forceful as a current in the Waking Sea; washing away assassins, bounty hunters, and Mac Tir himself. 

“Then,” she replied, as though it were a given. “We break free.” 

Alistair felt a rush of desire so potent that he was almost swept along with the would-be assassins. Horrified, he jerked his gaze from his sister-warden’s face, focusing instead on the water stained canvas overhead. 

Flora watched him mouth silently for several minutes, her brow furrowing. 

“Are you talking to yourself?” she enquired eventually, with the nonchalance of one who had spent years conversing with non-corporeal entities.

“No,” Alistair replied, through gritted teeth. “I’m… reciting the Chant. What I can remember of it.” 

Flora was astounded. “But - but WHY?”

“Morning prayers,” he said gloomily after a moment. “I’m feeling… particularly  _ devout _ this morning.” 

She looked at him as though he had sprouted a second head; one draped with prayer beads and sporting a Chantry mitre. Just then, Leliana - who had clearly been eavesdropping - called through the canvas from her own tent. 

“Why don’t we pray together, Alistair? I know the  _ matins  _ service by heart!” 

Alistair groaned and dragged a palm over his face, fingers parting on the proud peak of his nose. 

Just then came a noise from outside the tent; a step that was not percussive enough to belong to the Qunari, nor subtle enough for the barefoot witch. A clumsy limb knocked over a cooking pot that had been left beside the fire. A flank brushed against the canvas, it’s silhouette indistinct. Alistair and Flora looked at one another: the recent exchange about assassins fresh in their minds. Then, in a rumble of blankets, Alistair scrambled for the canvas folds; flailing a hand towards the hilt of his sword. 

He half-lunged, half-fell out of the tent entrance; narrowly missing impaling himself as he emerged into a sallow dawn. Flora, on his heels, collided with his back as he stopped abruptly. The next moment Alistair had begun to laugh, the sword descending to his side. A dozen sheep were wandering freely around the camp; several more stood dotted about the periphery. One had its cloven hoof squarely in the overturned cookpot, another was chewing on the edge of Leliana’s tent. They all bore a similar, stupefied expression; as though hit over the head with something hard. Their mule stood beside the fence, sullen and outnumbered. 

“Maker’s Breath,” he said, regaining some evenness of speech. “At least it’s not a band of dagger-wielding assassins.” 

Flora eyed the woollen horde with some trepidation. There were no sheep in the vicinity of Herring; the terrain of the northern coast was rough and uncultivated. There had certainly been no sheep in the Circle, or else they were very well hidden. 

“What do they eat?” she asked, nervously. 

“Redheads,” commented Morrigan evilly, strolling out from the line of trees. 

“Grass,” corrected Alistair, giving one a gentle nudge. “And leftovers, apparently. Go on, move. Go home.”

Not entirely convinced, Flora put a tentative hand on a woollen back. 

“It’s  _ greasy.  _ Hello,” she said, as the sheep swung a mindless eye towards her. “Ooh, my coat is made from your brothers. Sorry.” 

The witch made no effort to help Flora and Alistair clear the campsite. She leaned against a tree trunk and laughed, yellow eyes gleaming as she watched their efforts; which mostly resulted in the sheep drifting from one side to the other. Alistair’s hammering of sword against shield prompted them to run in circles. Flora waved her arms, then unhelpfully shielded herself whenever one ventured too near. 

Eventually, the sheep dispersed when the Qunari emerged from his tent, vast and glowering. They took one look at him and scattered, reforming in a white streak as they thundered down the grassy slope. Leliana, who had not wanted to begin her day corralling recalcitrant sheep, came out from her tent shortly after. She was - somehow - washed and fully dressed in pristine leathers; her hair braided around her head to keep it from her eyes. 

“Goodness me,” she remarked lightly, surveying the carnage of the campsite and the two dishevelled Wardens. “It looks like the Darkspawn have been running amok. Shall we tidy up and get underway?”

Once they had broken their fast, they deconstructed the camp and packed their belongings back into the cart. A westerly wind from the Frostbacks had swept the cloud towards the coastal forests. A clear wash of sky was left in its wake; the same insipid shade as a watercolourist’s palest blue. The fee for such a crisp and cloudless day was a drop in temperature: frost veined the trunks of trees and clung to the grass, splintering underfoot.

After a half-day on the road the rolling rural landscape began to take on the characteristics of the region known as the Hinterlands. The hills became higher and more sharply angled, the cultivated fields yielded to rocky bluffs and ridges. Fir trees rose and fell in bristling fringes, boasting evergreen foliage to their bare-branched counterparts. Reminders of the arling’s seat were strewn throughout the landscape. The smaller streams ran a ruddy orange; the cliffs were veined with iron ore. Red clay lay exposed wherever the soil was broken, like muscle beneath the skin. 

The road was in better condition here; fewer trees blown across it and several of the larger potholes had been filled in. This was most likely due to their proximity to the trading post known colloquially as  _ Barterton,  _ its original name known only to scholars and mapmakers. The small party decided not to visit the village; they had drawn enough attention to themselves within Lothering. Leliana donned her Chantry robe and an air of unobtrusiveness; venturing into the settlement with a handcart to obtain supplies. 

While the lay sister was coercing donations from the inhabitants, the other members of the party waited beside the wagon. They had stopped near the hollow remnants of a burnt-out barn: little remained of the original structure save for two charred walls and the outline of a door.

Alistair, drawing on his years in Eamon Guerrin’s stable, was attending to the mule’s hoof; murmuring to calm it as he worked out a stone. Flora, after an unsuccessful attempt to initiate conversation with the Qunari, decided to try her luck with Morrigan. The witch had just returned from a lazy scouting circuit overhead; after much entreating, she had agreed to survey their immediate surroundings. 

“No assassins on the loose, or else they’ve disguised themselves as goats and farmhands,” she drawled once her crow’s beak had widened and softened into a more recognisable shape. “I spied nothing of interest, more's the pity. All those years I spent in thrall about the world beyond the Wilds; now I am here, ‘tis…. unimpressive.”

Flora, perched precariously on the cart rail, turned her attention to the witch.

“We do have something in common,” she said, triumphant. “I  _ knew _ we weren’t wholly different.” 

Morrigan curled her lip, deliberately averting her eyes towards the scorched barn. A true northerner: Flora either ignored or had no knowledge of social cues. She continued, oblivious. 

“I grew up in Herring. You grew up in the Wilds. Neither of us left, but both of us wondered about… what was  _ beyond.” _

She beamed; Morrigan scowled. The painted scarlet lips parted to deliver a scathing rejoinder; to the witch’s surprise, an entirely different sort of comment emerged. 

“I admit, that is not… incorrect,” she admitted, begrudging. “One time, when I was a child, a noblewoman’s carriage came through the Wilds - it must have been lost - and I followed it for miles. I had never seen wood that was painted, nor metal that had been shaped for purpose other than cooking, crafting, or war. I wished that- ”

She cut herself off abruptly, frowning at the uncharacteristic lapse in discretion. Flora tried to disguise the fact that she had nearly fallen off the cart rail in shock by clinging on nonchalantly for a few moments, before lowering herself to the ground. 

“Noble carriages never came to Herring on purpose,” she replied, gazing up at where Morrigan perched, birdlike, atop the crates. “The lord of Highever visited us once, but I think he’d got lost. My dad took me out on the boat so I didn’t get to see him.”

But Morrigan made it clear that the conversation was over by shrinking in a ruffle of feathers; her shape compacting and contorting in impossible angles as a beak sprouted from the centre of her face. The Qunari made a sound of disgust; curling his lip at such unnatural practises. 

A spiteful wind had sprung up again, robbing the nearby elms of their last remaining leaves. It danced within the spokes of the cart wheels; ruffling the rolls of canvas and teasing free strands of hair. Flora pulled the loose folds of her coat more tightly around her body and went to retrieve Alistair’s travel cloak, which hung with vulnerable openness from the edge of the cart. Bundling it against her breast, she wandered to the front of the cart. Alistair had just finished removing the stone from the mule’s hoof; and was patting its neck with the broad flat of his palm, murmuring into its whiskered ear. 

At her approach, her brother-warden smiled and straightened; dwarfing the mule with his six feet and three inches of length. 

“Thanks,” he said, then furrowed his brow down at her. “Sure you don’t want it? Is that coat warm?”

Suspicious, Alistair rubbed the coarse wool between his fingers, then reached inside the sleeve to feel her wrist. The skin was warm and dry; her pulse throbbed in vital rhythm against his thumb. 

“I’m fine,” Flora replied, gazing up through the foot of air that separated their faces. “Thank you.” 

He released her wrist reluctantly. She blinked back at him, then turned her gaze on the village that clung to the nearby hillside. The rooftops were covered in grass so that each building seemed part of the natural landscape; there was no discernible centre or market square, just an untidy tangle of footpaths. An old stone monument, features blurred, jutted from a crag of exposed rock; a lone merchant had set out his goods at its feet. For a village known as a trading post, there was little visible activity. 

“Doesn’t look like there’s much going on,” observed Alistair, his thoughts running a similar path. “Slow day, maybe.” 

“Mm.” 

Flora extracted her hair from the mule’s mindlessly chewing jaw. Wandering to the scorched remnants of the barn, she went in through the ruined doorway, then clambered up onto the decaying foundation of a wall. This afforded her a better view of the buildings scattered across the hillside before them. An old woman was hanging clothing out to dry on a line suspended from the stone monument. 

“Do you think the Darkspawn will get this far?” she asked, digging the toe of her boot in for balance. “We’re a long way from Ostagar.”

Alistair scratched the mule’s ear a final time, then came to stand below her. 

“Probably, if they aren’t stopped,” he replied, thinking grimly,  _ to be accurate: if we don’t stop them.  _ “They’ll probably reach Denerim. Or, we could get lucky and they head west to Orlais. Pity about the Frostbacks in the way.”

Flora leaned on the half-fallen wall, belly pressed against the crumbling stone. An ant ran over the back of her hand and she watched its meandering journey towards the ground. Denerim, she knew, was the largest city in Ferelden: it lay to the east in a blur of remote obscurity. She envisioned it as a bloated elder cousin of Lothering, sprawling for miles and stuffed to bursting with people. 

“Have you ever been to Denerim?” 

“Twice,” he replied, propping his lengthy frame against the wall she was leaning on. “Once with Arl Eamon, though I was too young to remember it. And then again a year or so ago, just after Duncan recruited me.”

“What’s it like?”

Alistair thought for a moment. 

“It’s split into different districts. The nobles live in one bit, the merchants in another. There’s a big alienage. And a  _ huge  _ Chantry, though it’s probably the ugliest one in Ferelden. The city’s built on the bank of a river estuary, so there’s a lot of docks and jetties. The whole place stinks of fish when the wind blows off the sea.”

Flora had not been impressed until his final remark, when she perked up. 

“I don’t know nothin’ about Denerim,” she confessed; it was as distant and alien to her as the marble-veined, decaying glory that was Minrathous. “But my dad told me that Highever was built by three giants.”

Alistair cast her a sideways look.  _ “Giants?!” _

“Yes.” She waved at Leliana, who was making her way up the grassy slope towards them. “Named Gorbal, Uzgal and - I don’t remember the third one. But anyway, once they’d built Highever, they walked into the Waking Sea and went to sleep.”

At first, when Flora had shared her peculiar northern anecdotes, Alistair had thought that she was teasing him; testing the limits of his naivety. Yet he had quickly come to realise that she wholeheartedly believed each strange superstition and story: they were stitched inexorably into the sailcloth of her childhood. 

“And my dad says that whenever Ferelden is in danger, the three giants will walk out of the sea and come to its aid.” 

She gazed at him; her irises a clear and lucent grey. The surrounding eyelashes were very dark and defined, as though drawn directly onto the skin with a fine-tipped inkpen.

“We could do with a couple of giants in the party,” Alistair replied cheerfully, reaching for her hand as she began to inch downwards. “I’d like to see one of them boot Mac Tir across the Landsmeet chamber. Careful, now.”

“Hm,” said Flora, clutching his palm to steady herself as she slithered off the wall. “I don’t think they’d fit in the tents.” 

He laughed and squeezed her fingers briefly before releasing them. 

“Ah, well. Let’s go and see what the lay sister has managed to extort from the helpless villagers.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I once read somewhere that a good writer will use the least possible amount of words to get their point across. I unfortunately like to use 28948292 words where one will do, plus I love dragging the arse out of everything, which is why we’re 37 chapters in and not even in Redcliffe yet, lol. In the original story, we’d done Redcliffe; the Circle and the Sacred Ashes by chapter 37, ooooooops. That’s why I’ll never be a ‘good writer, I like taking my time XD Thank you so much for your patience! 
> 
> Anyway, I love a good travelling chapter! I wanted to get a fraction more of Morrigan opening up, plus develop the relationship between Flora and Alistair. I also wanted to emphasise how amateurish (wrong word but I can’t think of the right one) they are in the beginning - their camp is overrun with sheep, the tents are too small, they have issues getting supplies…. I think it’s a bit more realistic? Also I slightly love the idea of Flora shielding herself whenever a sheep gets a bit too close lol


	38. On The Shore Of Cal’s Sea

Lake Calenhad was the greatest body of inland water within Thedas; so vast that many who lived nearby knew it colloquially as  _ Cal’s Sea.  _ The people of Ferelden had many differing tales about the creation of the lake; but one presided above all others. Long ago, when the liquid terrain of Thedas was first shaped into peak and trough and dale by the hand of the Maker, He had accidentally leaned a divine elbow into the western part of what would later be called Ferelden. When He saw the vast dent in His creation He wept, and filled the valley with his tears, until it had become a vast lake. This interpretation was not endorsed by the Chantry - they did not appreciate a fallible Maker, nor an emotional one - but it was popular amongst those fortunate enough to avoid a formal education. 

As the sun dipped below the Frostbacks, the Wardens and their party were a quarter-mile from the lake’s southern shore. The meander of the landscape had become sharper and more prominent over the past hours of their journey; as though someone had pushed a swatch of fabric into stiff pleats and laid a road over them. To stop their mule going lame on the steeper slopes, the party walked alongside the wagon; Alistair and Sten shouldered the heavier baggage to avoid over-burdening the beast. Morrigan, who never walked if she could wing, circled overhead; though the crisp, cool air and lack of uplifting currents made it more exerting. Leliana was the only one still perched on the wagon, the reins clutched in her hands as she guided the mule up the uneven incline. 

With each step she took, Flora became more convinced that she had done some permanent damage to her knee. They had walked for over fifteen miles and the joint throbbed as though someone had smashed it with a warhammer. A jolt of bone-white pain jagged up her thigh each time she put weight on her left leg. Naturally, she made no complaint: her practical heart saw that there was nothing that her companions could do, and she could not heal a bone that had already been mended, albeit poorly. Northerners did not  _ whine;  _ you were expected to either solve the grievance yourself, or bite your tongue. 

_ Why didn’t you warn me that I was doing myself damage when I was mending it?  _

** _You were distracted._ **

Morrigan had said:  _ all the Wardens are dead.  _

_ All? Even Duncan?  _ The question resonated like the shudder of a Chantry bell. 

Her spirits had confirmed it, and her fingers had clamped down hard on her broken knee; growing fresh cartilage where there should be none. 

Preoccupied with feeling sorry for herself, Flora stumbled over a pothole on the track. Alistair, several yards ahead, looked over his shoulder at her sharp intake of breath; but he was leading the mule by the head over the uneven ground and could not abandon his post.

“Alright, Flo?”

She offered an ambiguous grunt in return, not wanting to lie to her brother-warden. He eyed her suspiciously for a moment; then returned his gaze to the steep incline ahead, lips pulling taut.

“Is this ‘arl’ your commander, mage?” 

Flora almost fell over for a second time in as many minutes: it was the first time that Sten had voluntarily addressed her. Forgetting about her knee, she spun her head towards the Qunari. 

“What! Sorry, what?”

Sten fixed her with a flat, ember-red stare; the penetrating sort that caused men and dogs to quail. Flora, who was used to such laconic derision - it was a valued trait in Herring - was enchanted. 

“The arl we are travelling to see: Guerrin. Is he the commander of your forces?” 

He pronounced it: Gu-aryn. Flora shook her head and wondered if she would ever hear the word _commander _again without hearing its mournful echo in her ear: _my_ _gifted girl. _

“No,” she replied, pricking her ears as she heard the distinctive sound of wind over water, somewhere unseen but near. “He’s Alistair’s… Alistair’s…” 

She did not know quite how to describe the relationship between Eamon Guerrin and Alistair. Granted, Alistair had not seemed altogether sure himself when he had explained it to her. 

“Alistair’s man friend,” she said, finally. “He’s an important noble. He might be able to help us. Actually, he  _ has  _ to help us. He’s not got a choice.” 

“Assist with the defeat of the Darkspawn?”

“No… well,  _ maybe _ . But mostly with General Mac Tir. The one who’s named the Wardens  _ traitor.  _ He’s sending assassins after us.” 

The Qunari was uninterested in the political intrigues of a third-rate nation; he diverted the conversation back to the matter at hand.

“Who is your  _ military _ commander? The one who will lead the armies in the field? He?” 

The great, bull-like head canted towards Alistair, who was hauling half the wagon’s contents on his shoulder while simultaneously guiding the mule up the hill. They had almost reached the crest now; a dark curve set against the apricot-streaked sky.

“Um,” said Flora, her belly matching the downwards trajectory of the sunset. She felt as though she were in a Circle classroom once again, during one of their many futile attempts to give her an education. 

“He seems to defer to you frequently, despite his status as a physically dominant male. Who is in charge?”

Flora wished that the Qunari had not begun to speak after all. 

“We’re both in charge,” she said at last, her knee throbbing. “And he only asks me things because he ain’t yet realised that he makes good decisions.”

Sten’s lip curled but he said no more. Flora noticed that he had crafted a weapon for himself from a fence post; honed to a spike at one end. It was an economical length: long enough to penetrate vital organs but not so much that it would snag on bone and sinew. 

“We’ll find you a sword,” she said as they neared the apex of the ridge. “The arl might have one to spare.”

“I had a sword.”

The Qunari’s gaze shifted away from her, smooth as a snake shedding its skin. 

“What happened to it?” 

Flora was not surprised when no answer was forthcoming. 

_ “Regardez!”  _ called Leliana suddenly from the head of the wagon, rising to her feet for a better view.  _ “Le lac.”  _

Calenhad lay before them in an airy haze; turned molten by the hues of sunset. The edge of each ripple gleamed like glass, reflecting a thousand points of light across the water’s surface. The cliffs that surrounded it were a fleshy red; ribbons of rust-coloured water tumbled down the rockface and bled into the edges of the lake. The northern part of the lake was not visible; the water extended as far as the horizon, and then beyond for two dozen leagues. Anyone who scoffed at its colloquial name - Cal’s Sea - suddenly acknowledged the truth in the title; for such a vast body of water surely deserved a grander label than  _ lake.  _

_ “C’est magnifique,”  _ breathed Leliana, inhaling as though she were imbibing Calenhad’s very essence. “The  _ Miroir du Mère  _ pales in comparison.” 

Flora had no idea what the lay sister was talking about, but she was fascinated to see the lake from a different perspective. Kinloch Hold, the Circle which had netted her for four years, had reared up from a rocky archipelago at Calenhad’s upper end. The surrounding terrain could not have contrasted more: here, iron-stained cliffs plunged several hundred feet to the water’s surface; at the northern end, the landscape lay flat and forested. 

“It looks like a different lake,” she said, recalling the view from the Circle Tower. “Is that Redcliffe?”

An hour’s ride away a sizable town lay within an inlet. An array of timbered buildings crept up the ruddy hillside and clustered on the lake shore. A dock snaked along the water’s edge, flanked by a dozen small boats and a protruding jetty. The sails of a nearby windmill stood motionless as it presided in hollow authority over the buildings below. 

Redcliffe itself could have been any town in Ferelden, but the accompanying castle was far more distinctive. A crenellated sprawl of high walls and round towers fortified a colossal crag of granite; two hundred feet above the water and accessible only from the mainland by a single spur of rock. Even at a distance, the heraldry hung from the battlements was visible: a grey keep on a crimson mound. It was a bastion built for defence; reliant on the effectiveness of its natural geography to keep enemies at bay. Mindful of its proximity to Orlais, none of its features had been constructed for aesthetic purpose. As a long-dead king had once commented:  _ to take Ferelden the enemy must first take Castle Redcliffe, and that is no small feat.  _

Alistair nodded without speaking, his gaze fixed on the place where he had spent the first decade of his life. The mule’s reins were still clenched in a motionless hand, his expression unreadable. 

“We could press on to the town,” Leliana suggested, glancing sideways. “It would take an hour, perhaps two.” 

Flora ground her teeth, feeling her knee give a sharp stab of protest. Still, she did not want to slow the party down and so resigned herself to continue - hopping if necessary. 

“No.” 

Alistair’s reply lacked any hesitation; and when she looked up, his eyes were fixed on her. “We’ll stop here for tonight and carry on in the morning.” 

He dropped a swift hand on Flora’s shoulder as he headed towards the wagon:  _ I see you.  _

It was the second time that they had set up camp as a party of five, and a routine began to establish itself. The Qunari gathered wood for a fire by snapping loose branches the breadth of a human arm; Morrigan lit the fire with the touch of her staff and a curled lip; Leliana organised the cooking apparatus and selecting foodstuffs. The two young Wardens took charge of the tents; extracting tentpoles and swathes of canvas from the wagon. 

The smell of herbs and roasting vegetables drifted along the grassy ridge as the sun sunk out of sight. Stars began as distant lanterns, set deep in silver wreaths of cloud. Calenhad seemed as vast as any sea at night, stretching across the land like ink spilled across a desk. High on the ridge overlooking the lake, the camp began to shape itself. Flora, draped in canvas, rotated slowly on the grass as Alistair pulled out the fabric; checking for holes or tears that needed mending. This was their third tent: the first two leaned at drunken angles beside the fire. The Wardens were not yet entirely adept at constructing their new accommodation. 

“This one seems fine,” Alistair said at last, letting the fabric go. “Ha, you look like a Tevinter emperor with that sheet wrapped round you. All hail!”

“What’s a  _ nemperor?” _

“Like a king.” 

“Ooh.”

Flora waved an arm in what she believed was a royal fashion; the canvas slithered down to her elbow. Her brother-warden snorted, using the bulk of his body to sink the tentpole into the earth. 

“Go on, Imperator Florus Maximus: say something regal.” 

Flora paused, thinking on the few sentences that Cailan had directed towards her during their limited time together. 

“‘Take off your shirt,’” she said at last. 

“Whaa- ”

_ “Stew is ready! Mangeons!” _

Before they ate, Leliana proposed that they begin their meal with a short prayer. When this was met with either incredulity or unenthusiastic silence, she suggested instead that they share something that they were grateful for; for the purpose of giving thanks to the Maker. Morrigan laughed when she was prompted to speak, yellow eyes gleaming like tourmaline in the illuminated shadow. Sten flatly ignored the lay priestess while Flora, who had started to surreptitiously eat, had her mouth full and said nothing. Alistair, tired of Chantry ritual after a decade of religious routine at the monastery, said that he was grateful for newly mended socks. 

The bard had done her best with their limited range of supplies, and although - in Alistair’s opinion - the stew contained a very  _ Orlesian  _ array of herbs, he still ate three bowls’ worth. Morrigan and Sten sat just outside the perimeter of the firelight; eating in silence and eyeing each other with naked distaste. The lay sister murmured a private prayer before eating, but then chattered so much that her food grew tepid. She had an encyclopaedic knowledge of Ferelden’s greater and lesser families; and proceeded to inform them of the multifarious parts played by the Guerrins in the nation’s history. 

“It was seen as a great scandal when Eamon Guerrin married an Orlesian,” she said, distractedly stirring her spoon around her bowl. “The lady Isolde’s mother was so disappointed that she did not speak to her daughter for  _ years.  _ Communications only resumed when the little boy was born - what was his name again? Cornelius, Conrad…”

“Connor,” interjected Alistair. It was the first that he had contributed to the conversation, apart from an audible snort at the mention of lady Isolde. “Eamon’s son is named Connor, for his great-grandfather.”

_ “Ah, oui,”  _ replied Leliana, inclining her head. “Tell me, Alistair, did you see much of the arl and arlessa during your time at the castle? You were fortunate to spend your childhood in such a magnificent building.” 

“I slept in the stables,” he replied drily, setting down his bowl on the grass. “I only saw the inside of the castle when they needed help serving drinks at parties. And they stopped asking me after I spilled mead into some old bann’s lap.”

The lay sister smiled, fingers moving as though plucking chords on some unseen lute. For a few moments there was silence, save for the hiss and spit of the fire; smoke drifting heavenwards in spark-wreathed curls. An owl called a coarse greeting from the nearby band of trees. Morrigan slid back into the darkness with a rustle of beads and small bones; winging her way up through the shadow. 

Flora, who had finished her stew earlier, had occupied herself with purifying the water collected from the lake. She knew well the rule of drinking water:  _ let neither salt nor stagnant nor standing pass your lips.  _ It had taken her only a short while to stick a finger in each bucket and waterskin; watching skeins of gossamer-thin gold ripple out from beneath her nail. Once she had gauged that any impurity had been cleansed, she wiped her damp hands on her coat and rose to rejoin the others.

Her knee gave a sharp twinge of protest as she went to sit beside Alistair. Caught off-guard by the pain, she lurched down onto the grass harder than expected. He turned towards her in alarm, a steadying hand lifting too late. 

“Is it your knee?” 

Flora gave a glum nod of confirmation, rolling her leggings up over the offending limb. The joint, illuminated by firelight, was swollen and sore. She went automatically to put her fingers to it; then remembered that it was not  _ injured,  _ just poorly mended. 

“Were you wounded during the battle at Ostagar?” Leliana asked sympathetically, eyeing the grimacing girl. “It must have been most horrific.”

“Um,” Flora replied, wondering if being wounded a quarter-mile  _ above  _ the battle at Ostagar counted. A memory surfaced like a day-drowned corpse in her mind: her and Alistair rushing through the murk and shifting shadow of Ishal; the baying howls of the Darkspawn echoing from the stairwell below. “No, I… I fell. I think. I don’t know how I was hurt. But it’s not injured, it’s just… poorly mended.” 

She hung her head, struck by the irrational fear that she had somehow disappointed Duncan. He had named her  _ gifted,  _ as  _ specialised not limited,  _ as  _ rare as a zinnia flowering in Firstfall;  _ and she had bungled the mending of a mere broken bone. Flora had fused fractures without issue since she was seven years old. For a moment she fancied that she saw her commander, standing in the shadows beyond the reach of the fire; ash smeared across the hollow bones of his face. 

“Hey, Flo.” 

A fish, folded out of wax paper that had formerly held Leliana’s parsley, ‘swam’ before her eyes. She blinked and glanced sideways: Alistair was smiling at her, his fingers gripping the creation by its makeshift tail. 

“What kind of fish is this?”

“Ooh,” Flora replied, rousing herself. “It’s got a big body. Little fins. I’d say… a tuna fish.”

“A tuna fish, eh?”

“Mm.”

Alistair put it into her hand and she let it lie flat on her palm, the pointed folds settled against her skin. He expected her to toss it into the fire - it was just a piece of rubbish, albeit one artfully contorted - but instead, Flora put it into her pocket. 

“Thank you. I know what I’m grateful for,” she said, remembering Leliana’s question. “ _ You.  _ I’m glad that we’re doing this together, brother-warden.”

She leaned forward - a palm on the grass to steady herself - and pecked him on the cheek. Alistair felt as though she had put her finger through his ear and swirled the contents of his skull. 

“You’re welcome, my dear,” he said, and his voice sounded as though it belonged to a stranger. Flora smiled at him, settling back on her rear and returning her pensive gaze to the fire. 

He was relieved when the rest of the company broke apart after dinner to pursue their own ends; it gave him a chance to brood over what had just happened. Leliana, in sharp contrast to her earlier piety, was now sharpening a wicked variety of knives; humming a melody of a distinctly  _ secular _ nature. The Qunari stood south of the tents testing the weight and motion of his improvised pike. Flora sat on the grass a few yards away, her profile picked out in gold by the spill of light from the fire. She was washing out the party’s bowls, scrubbing at the dregs of the stew with a spare rag. A pile of drying utensils was balanced precariously beside her knee. Flora liked cleaning; she was good at it, and there was a simple satisfaction in restoring an object to shining brightness. 

Alistair could feel the echo of her kiss on his cheek, as though she had branded him with the print of her lips. There had been no arcane residue left on his skin; despite the miraculous properties of her mouth. Her purpose had not been to heal him - there was nothing to mend - but simply to bestow her affection. He watched Flora meticulously place each bowl upside down to drain, placing their spoons inside a beaker. She made an incongruous figure, hunched inside the shapeless grey wool of her coat, further cloaked in shadow and smoke from the nearby fire; the dark crimson of her hair deepened to plum by the darkness. 

“Flo?”

Flora looked at him, a spoon in one hand and the cleaning rag in the other. 

“I’m glad we’re doing this together, too.” 

She smiled at him, her teeth as small and white as fragments of eggshell. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha this is so long! Why do I love dragging stuff out so much?? Oh well since people are on lockdown it gives them something to read I suppose. Anyway, I hope people are doing ok during this strange time. I’m actually recovering from a minor case of Coronavirus now (London is a total Petri dish, catching it was inevitable!). I’ve had a dry cough and a fever which was brought down with paracetamol, but I’ve been fine overall, I’ve had worse colds. But I’m also in pretty good physical condition and health so I’m fortunate. Luckily baby is asymptomatic! 
> 
> O


	39. The Fish Rope

The stars were strung like a gem-studded net across the sky. Once the remnants of dinner had been cleared - nobody wanted another ovine invasion - and the fire built up, the party broke away to their separate tents. Morrigan, who had not assisted with either chore, had already retreated to the ragged cluster of trees to find a suitable nesting spot. The Qunari, after honing his improvised weapon to an even sharper point, rammed the pike into the red-stained earth before his tent and disappeared inside. Leliana lit a small lamp and took it within her own makeshift quarters, wafting a sweet, pungent scent in her wake. The inconstant light outlined her shape against the canvas, bent double in prayer. 

Flora and Alistair had quickly grown used to the confined space of their tent. Her slightness countered his length, and the breadth of his shoulder; it was fortunate that she was no larger or there would not have been enough room for the both of them and their packs. As it was, each part of his body in motion seemed to come into contact with either canvas or a supporting strut at some point. Only a timely grab at a tent-pole stopped the entire structure from collapsing in on them. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, hunched over his sister-warden like an inept burglar hiding from the city watch. “Just doing up the door straps. In case any more killer sheep invade us in the night.”

Flora was already bundled within her blanket, clad in the shirt and smalls that she usually slept in. Pulling the fabric up to her chin, she watched Alistair inch his way up the tent in a mass of shadow. He half-fell onto the bedroll alongside her; she felt the percussive thud of his body reverberate through the earth.

“Sorry,” he said again, extracting the tail of her blanket from beneath him. “I’m not very graceful. Did I squash your head?”

“No,” she reassured him sleepily, inching over to make room on the pillow. “Are you excited to see your… man friend tomorrow?”

Alistair almost laughed, then remembered that others rested a few yards away, separated only by swathes of canvas. 

“Eamon? I don’t know. If he’s unwell, his wife might not let us see him. Lady Isolde has never been my greatest fan.” 

Flora shifted onto her side, curling up her toes within her socks.

“She’ll let us see him if I say that I can mend him,” she replied, yawning midway through the words. “Are you looking forward to going home?”

He hesitated before responding, gazing up at the vaulted canvas. A seam of moonlight marked where he had tied the entrance folds together. The notion of a thin sheath of fabric acting as their only protection while they slept was a disconcerting one; he thrust the thought from his mind.

“I don’t know,” he said eventually, feeling her pale eyes resting on him. “I suppose - no, not really. I didn’t miss Redcliffe at all when I got sent to the monastery - I mean, I missed my freedom and I didn’t want to be where I was, but… no. Redcliffe never felt like a home. I doubt anyone except the Guerrins will even remember me.” 

Flora could not relate to such disassociation. If she sank her mender’s gaze beneath the oyster shell of her skin, she knew what she would find secreted within the salinated depths. The bones were lengths of dark granite; the blood saltwater; the organs coarsely lined with grit. Her tongue kept the cadence of the north; her mind returned to the sea each night in her dreams. 

“It’s not like you and Herring,” Alistair said, reading her thoughts. “I’ve never had that - that sort of thing. That connection. I hoped that the...”

His sentence continued, unspoken:  _ and I hoped that the Grey Wardens might have filled that bare hollow instead. That Duncan might - and now -  _

Impulsively, Flora set her chin on his shoulder, tilting her face into the hollow between the ear and the collarbone. He reached an arm over, settling his palm around the back of her neck. The languid throb of her pulse calmed him more than any Chantry prayer had even done; his thumb sliding over the convergence of hair and skin. The previous night it had been the result of an unconscious, instinctual motion of the hand. Now it was the product of a deliberate decision that neither of them chose to mention.

“I think Sten’s tent is going to fall down before morning,” Flora confided in a whisper. “Will he murder us both, do you think? We did put it up.”

Alistair’s grin was lost in the darkness. “Probably. With his new pointy stick.” 

He felt her smile and then yawn against his neck; in response, he grasped her a little more tightly, inhaling the clean, soapy scent of her hair. Outside, the fire gnawed its way through another log, sending a cavalry of sparks heavenwards. The moon lifted its clouded brim, looked down on Redcliffe and then hid its face in horror. 

_ Alone on a vast and desolate shore, Flora paddled in the shallows, the water around her ankles a greyish green. She was content to do nothing but watch the waves tussle further out in the bay, their unnatural hue a reflection of the seething viridian sky. A ramshackle facsimile of Herring stood nearby, spread in rough approximation across the exposed granite. Half-recalled figures, their features blurred, stood frozen amongst the buildings; motionless until given the attention of their creator.  _

_ Flora spotted a shell the size of a closed fist half-buried in the sand near her toes. Retrieving it from the current’s gentle tug, she let it rest on her palm. The next moment she almost dropped it in fright as a stern and familiar voice echoed from within its hollowed mouth.  _

** _Enough leisure. It is time. _ **

_ Time for what? Oh no, thought Flora, horrified. The ‘vision’?  _

** _Yes. We have shielded you long enough._ **

_ I don’t want to see it. Whatever it is. _

_ The shell dissolved to empty air in her palm. She looked around her; nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Her beach was as she had so painstakingly constructed it over the years: a bleak and endearingly ugly tribute to her northern home.  _

** _There is no choice. _ **

_ She repeated the protest from the previous night: I don’t want to be the sort of person who has visions. _

_Her spirits ignored her. _

** _First, you must learn to look. _ **

_ Look at what?  _

_ The air shifted; the wind shrivelling like the breath in a dying man’s throat. Overhead, the sky darkened as a fleet of clouds drew in: a storm was coming. Flora looked up in alarm, the waves dormant around her ankles. A sudden, primal urge to hide flared with urgent luminescence within her brain. She felt like prey; shell broken, flesh exposed on the bare swath of beach. The skies were swallowed by a mirrored ocean, the green-hued heavens drowning in mist and fog.  _

_ From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a shadow that moved swiftly behind the cloud, the outline of something vast. The feeling of dread swelled like a tumour in her belly; she took an uneven step back, seawater clinging to her ankles. A beating wing parted the veil of mist; the serpentine twist of a torso was silhouetted for a split-second. One moment it was in the eastern part of the sky, then it was soaring westwards, then it appeared to the south. It was everywhere and yet it was nowhere: a corporeal spectre that stalked the skies, visible only for a moment in the corner of the eye. The only constant was that it was growing closer; flying in ever-smaller circles behind its veil of cloud. _

_ I don’t want to look at it, Flora flailed, her mind shrinking in fear. Whatever it is, I don’t want to see it.  _

** _One day you will need to do more than look. _ **

_ WHAA-  _

_ A new murmur then crept into Flora’s ear, sly and intimate. The words it spoke made no sense and yet were strangely familiar; as though the tongue she knew was being uttered backwards. She could not move, struck dumb with horror; the seawater creeping up inch by purposeful inch around her shins. The shadowed shape winged it’s way overhead and she tasted something burnt and sour beneath her tongue.  _

_ I don’t want to look,  _ she thought again, frantically.  _ I don’t want to see it.  _

** _You must._ **

_ Her beach began to collapse around her, the sand pouring in grainy waterfalls into a dozen expanding cracks. The sea parted, then folded in on itself like a wet handkerchief; defying all laws of reason and physics. Losing her balance as the world tilted, Flora dropped to her knees. The coarse sand beneath her palms fell away into a well of darkness.  _

_ Then, deep in the void that had torn open the ground before her, a pair of hooded, serpentine eyes opened very wide. They were a colour that did not exist on a mortal spectrum of light and so they appeared as fibrous wheels of aether, alien and unknowable. Flora opened her mouth but no sound came out, her lungs paralysed as though encased in ice. The eyes focused on her and she tried to run, but her beach had disintegrated into a dense soup of viridian fog. The backwards whisper stalked its way around her skull; pulling apart the leafs of her mind and testing the wicker cage of her memory.  _

_ Then, unexpectedly, Flora felt something sinewy against her palm. When she looked, she saw a thin strand of fishing line wrapping itself insistently around her fingers. The line pulled taut and she felt herself pulled upwards towards the sunlight.  _

“Flora,  _ Flora!” _

The raw fear in Alistair’s voice could mean only one thing: that they were under attack. As Flora surfaced on the mortal side of the Veil she lifted her hands; turning her head to the side to see whether it was Loghain’s men, or perhaps a group of Darkspawn hunting in a pack. Yet there was nothing around her save for their camp, which was mostly how they had left it some hours earlier. The fire was smaller, the tents leaning at a sharper angle; but there were no invaders - not even of the woollen variety. 

Flora saw then Alistair’s panic was not directed at some unseen enemy: he was crouched over her, his staring eyes fixed on her face. She realised that he must have dragged her out of the tent by her bare legs, thrusting her into the illuminating aura of the fire. From the dishevelment of her shirt and the earth smeared on her legs, it had not been a gentle journey. 

“Flora,” he said again, then put his thumb and finger to her eye, forcing it open so he could check the pupil. She could see the pulse throbbing urgently in his throat. As he saw her pupil dark and cognisant, focusing on him, he gave a sigh of relief that shuddered through his body.

“Maker’s Breath.  _ Maker.”  _

So vast was Alistair’s relief that it overwhelmed the embarrassment he would usually have felt from the length of his body pressing hers into the damp earth. He gave a grimace that was halfway between a laugh and tears, then heaved himself off her with a groan; as though the muscle-bound flesh had turned to lead beneath the skin. Turning away, he made a fist and pressed it swiftly over his eyes, the bone of his jaw clenched tight.

Flora sat up, her legs smeared with ruddy soil. Her thoughts, which had been scattered like a handful of flung pebbles on waking, had collected themselves into order. 

_ What was THAT?  _ she thought indignantly, pulling her shirt down over her thighs with an absentminded hand.  _ In my dream. _

** _The Archdemon. _ **

_ I thought it was going to look like a flying lobster. _

** _No. As we told you: it takes the form of a dragon._ **

_ I didn’t know what a dragon looked like. It’s horrible. Why did you have to show me? I’m all sweaty now. _

** _Because, one day, you will need to kill it. _ **

The likelihood of her - FLORA - killing that vast and knowing alien presence was so improbable that she almost laughed.

_ Well, that ain’t happening. I’m just a mender. I don’t fight.  _

Her general-spirit ignored her protest.

** _And if you are going to kill it, you must first learn to look at it. _ **

Flora sighed, wafting smoke away from her face with a hand as the wind changed direction. Instead of arguing further, she turned her attention to her brother-warden. He was sitting a few feet away, facing the lake, his back to the fire. The broad shoulders were hunched, the head hung down. Shadow cloaked his face; hiding his expression. 

She crawled over the soil to reach him, reasoning that her legs were muddied already. He did not immediately acknowledge her presence at his side; though his lips pressed together more tightly, fingers moving in restless, aimless patterns against his thighs. Flora watched his stiff-jawed profile for a moment, then reached out and placed a palm on top of his agitated fingers; arresting their nervy dance by flattening them against his thigh. He looked down at her hand spread over his; the slight digits and slender wrist in contrast to his own burly swordsman’s grip. She curled her fingers down between his, bringing their knuckles into alignment as she waited patiently for him to speak.

He was quiet for several minutes, staring at Calenhad’s inky expanse as though expecting something to break the smooth tension of the water. The lake remained as still as a held breath, a vast sky-in-sea that mirrored the star strung heavens above. The occasional pinprick of light marked the location of small shoreline settlements, though Redcliffe - the largest - was hidden behind a spur of rock. Flora followed his gaze, distracting herself from the monstrous figure in her dream by recalling fish that lived solely in bodies of freshwater. 

_ Pike,  _ she thought, running her thumb up and down the side of Alistair’s smallest finger.  _ Carp. Roach. Minnow.  _

“I thought you were possessed.” 

_ Stickleback. _

Flora looked sideways at him, and Alistair was staring at her, the tawny richness of his skin made marble by moonlight. Fear aged him; it scored lines in his brow and pulled the corners of his mouth taut, yet it also tempered his gaze with the naked uncertainty of youth. 

“I woke up, and you were talking to yourself in your sleep. You were tossing back and forth, and I thought - I panicked, I suppose. Overreacted.”

His gaze glanced off her and returned to the lake, fingers clenching within her own. She realised that he had been badly frightened. 

“The Templars always taught us that mages were more vulnerable to possession when they slept, and I thought that perhaps - perhaps you’d been… something had…. well. _ Taken  _ you. While you were dreaming. And that I’d lost you, and I was on my own - ” 

It had been raw panic that had prompted him to drag her bodily from the tent, to thrust her into the firelight where he could see her face and check that her pupils were not the bone-white pinpricks of the possessed. Reason had temporarily fled; overwhelmed by a tide of dread that he was now the only Warden left in Ferelden, that Flora had been swept away to somewhere that he could not follow. 

“My spirits wouldn’t let that happen,” she said, clutching Alistair’s hand hard enough to disperse the fog in his mind. “They’ve always protected me. I had a bad dream- ” she resisted calling it a  _ vision,  _ she was not the sort of person who received  _ visions,  _ “about the… I think it was the Archdemon.”

“Oh.” Relief crashed over Alistair’s face, almost painful. “Right. Most of us - us Wardens - get that during our Joining, or just after. You didn’t, did you?”

Flora shook her head gloomily. 

“My spirits shielded me. I don’t know why they stopped.”

Her brother-warden let out a shuddering breath that he seemed to have been holding since dragging her from the tent. 

“Did… did Duncan warn you about it?” 

He looked closely at her face, curious to see how she reacted to the name. His sister-warden thought for a moment, and then her shoulders twitched in a shrug. 

“Maybe. I don’t remember. A lot was happening.”

Her unexpected extraction from the Circle; the longest journey she had ever undertaken; Ostagar; the expedition into the Wilds; her Joining; the purging of the scout and the first of many purgings for Duncan: all had taken place within a handspan of days. Her experiences from that week were knotted together like old fishing line, though a few barbed memories stayed snagged on her mind.

_ The feel of saddle and horseflesh. The way that the Hurlock’s blood curdled foully on the tongue. The vast, crumbling drawbridge at Ostagar; engineered six ages ago and still working.  _

_ Duncan’s words, their cadence and inflection preserved exactly as though each one had been placed in vinegar: spirit healer. Specialised, not limited. My gifted girl.  _

Flora shook her head free of the past’s melancholy cling; returning her attention to the present. Alistair was looking at her with an odd wistfulness. 

“I’m sorry that I pulled you out of the tent by the legs,” he said, suddenly. “It wasn’t very gentlemanly of me. Or very gentle. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she replied, fascinated. “Did you pretend that you were pulling a crab out of its shell?” 

“Ehem,” Alistair said, eyeing her. “No, I can’t say that I did.”

He was calmer now but still not at peace; Flora could feel the hard throb of his blood beneath her thumb, the vein in his neck pulsing. The night air bit at exposed skin, but there were two bright spots of colour high on his cheeks.

“Let’s go back in,” she said, then clarified. “Into the tent. I’ve got a story for you.”

She said it like it was a physical thing that she could place in his palms:  _ a story for you.  _

Before he followed in her wake, Alistair glanced over his shoulder. The wind had changed direction and was now sailing in from the south, where Redcliffe lay nestled in its shoreline inlet. He thought for a moment that he could hear the sound of battle carried on the air, a soft and sibilant whisper of metal. It lasted a moment and then faded away; he dismissed it as a figment of his still-unsettled mind. 

The tent was a haphazard tangle of bedding; testament to the hasty evacuation of its occupants. Flora, who was slender and more capable of manoeuvring within the cramped wedge of canvas, sorted out the bedrolls and blankets while Alistair waited outside. Once the tent’s interior had been restored, they took up their previous positions on their pallets. This time he did not hesitate; sliding an arm beneath her shoulder to curl an elbow around the back of her neck. She took his other hand, clasping his fingers tight between her own. 

The wind tested the strength of the pegs pinning the canvas to the earth; sighing as it found them sound. Some insignificant animal, too small to warrant intervention, investigated the stack of pots and pans left to dry beside the fire. Their neighbours made little noise in sleep; occasionally, the Qunari grunted as he tested the cramped confines of the canvas. 

The interior of the tent was darker than the moonlit night surrounding it. Flora turned her face towards the ceiling, and exhaled. Golden filaments drifted upwards from her parted lips, elevated by the heat from their bodies. Alistair reached up a finger to touch one gossamer strand as it floated above his head; it clung to his skin like a cobweb. The airy particles gleamed as they hung in space; an improvised, fibrous sort of candlelight. 

“My story,” Flora whispered, her breath warm against his face as they settled back on the shared pillow. “Is about a brother and sister. Like us: brother-warden. They lived on the coast and they went out on the water each day with their fishing boat. They mostly caught cod. On good days they caught tuna.”

The north came out stronger the more she spoke, each breathy word rimed with saltwater. Her sentences had an odd, compelling rhythm; disjointed as they were. 

“One day,” she continued in solemn tones. “They had just finished hauling in the nets when they saw a boat with strange sails heading towards them. When the boat got closer, they realised that it was filled with  _ Qunari raiders!” _

“Qunari raiders?” 

“Mm,” Flora confirmed, her expression grave.  _ “A whole boatful  _ of angry Stens _ . _ They tried to row back to shore, but a storm was blowing in from the east and the wind was against them. Everywhere they looked was waves. Then the raiders were on them, and they had no choice but to jump into the water or be captured.” 

“A dramatic tale,” he murmured, the warmth of her neck creeping into his palm. “Is this what passes as a bedtime story in Herring?”

Flora smiled at him, the strands of gold weaving in sinuous patterns above them. No longer the subject of her concentration they were gradually dissolving; aureate particles melting away before they could reach the blanket. 

“They did not want to be captured, so they jumped into the sea,” she continued. “Into the storm-tossed waves. Now, they were fortunate because deep beneath them, inside a cave, lived an Old Man of the Sea, named… I don’t remember. I always forget the names of people in these stories. But this Old Man felt sorry for the brother and sister, and so he turned them into fish so that they would not drown.”

A fibre of golden light dropped lightly onto her cheek, like the first leaf of autumn. Flora brushed it away absentmindedly; remnants of magic clung to her fingernails. 

“Even though they were now safe from the Qunari, the  _ wild water  _ threatened to part them. So brother and sister fish tied themselves together with rope, so that wherever the current and waves took them, they would go together and not be separated. And after some time the storm passed, and the raiders sailed away, and all was quiet again.”

Alistair opened his mouth, with the expectation that something dry or droll would emerge. Instead, he heard himself saying: “Noone’s ever told me a bedtime story before.”

Even though this was not what he had expected to say, he had the feeling that there was something else that remained unsaid. She bit at a fingernail absentmindedly, tucking her feet beneath the blanket. 

“Did they survive, then? The brother and sister.” 

Flora turned the exquisite architecture of her face back towards him; the imperious beauty diffusing into a smile.

“Of course,” she breathed. “Like us. We too have jumped into stormy seas, but this- ” she shook their clasped hands.  _ “This  _ is our fish-rope. We won’t lose each other as long as it’s tied tightly. No matter how rough it gets.” 

He squeezed her fingers hard and she gripped him back with the firm assurance of a girl who had grown up a fisherman’s daughter. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to put more emphasis on the fish rope story since it ends up being such an important analogy. I also wanted to cultivate more of the ‘Herring mythology’ (haha such a pretentious term!) that shapes Flora’s character so much. The Old Men of the Sea are actually part of the Greek pantheon of gods - primordial deities who lived underwater! 
> 
> Also, they don’t realise it but the sounds of battle from Redcliffe are real: they’re having their nightly invasion of corpses from the castle! 
> 
> I hope everyone is staying safe!! London is a shitshow at the moment haha. Hopefully this story can be a bit of a distraction. It’s definitely distracted me writing this chapter :)


	40. Ties That Bind

As though compensating for the Archdemon’s invasion of her dreams earlier that night, Flora’s spirits granted her a longer stretch of uninterrupted rest. This meant that, unusually, Alistair woke first; stirring beneath the blankets as the white, apple-flesh hue of a winter dawn shafted through the gap in the canvas. Despite the lumpen bedroll, the faint odour of mildew, and the fact that he had to contort the long limbs of his body to fit within the confines of the tent; he was comfortable enough to reject the idea of getting up at any point in the imminent future. The bare branches of the trees outside were imprinted in silhouette on the canvas, their edges blurred by dawnlight. From somewhere within the array of tangled twigs, a bird repeated a thin and repetitive note. The air hung still as a tapestry outside; the rest of the party were yet to stir. 

Usually, Alistair was not keen on silence. It reminded him of morning prayers in the monastery, when two hundred boys would gather in the chapel and suffer to be quiet for a candlelength; two eagle-eyed Chantry elders patrolling the aisles. Any whispering during the contemplation - or even an ill-timed rumble of the stomach - would be cause for discipline. 

Yet now he took a deep breath in the stillness, inhaling the brittle air of dawn. Wrenching his mind from the dream that had woken him, he dropped his gaze to where Flora lay sleeping at his side. She was tangled in the furs as though she had tried to fight them; though her face had the serene composure of a maiden feigning sleep for a painter. The flesh between the hollow of her throat and her collarbone was dappled with a medley of mellow light; like stained glass cast in lemon and eggshell. Her small hand was still clasped tightly in his, their fingers latched. 

Alistair found himself suddenly lightheaded, and realised that he had forgotten to exhale. He let the air out in tentative increments, determined not to wake her. As the youth watched his sister-warden sleep, his thumb meandered across the back of her hand, settling at the root of her index finger. Unconsciously - his attention was still on her face - he began to stroke the knuckle, tracing slow circles around the bone. She did not stir, cheek pressed into her hand; immersed deep in slumber. 

_ “Bonjour!”  _ The lay sister thrust her upper body between the loose folds of canvas. Her expression was deliberately casual, though the eyes were bright and keen with curiosity. In a heartbeat she had surveyed the interior of the tent, noting that although the young Wardens were close as corn and husk, he was fully dressed and she was clad in the shirt and smallclothes that she had settled down to sleep in. 

Leliana looked disappointed that they were merely holding hands; her lips pulling together as though someone had tugged on a drawstring. 

“Morning,” said Alistair drily, as Flora pulled the blanket over her head and moaned. “Time for dawn prayers, is it? I didn’t realise we were keeping Chantry hours.”

Leliana had the good grace to laugh, lowering her gaze demurely. The wedge of winter sky visible behind her was clear and unbroken; it looked to be another fine, albeit cold day. 

“Forgive me for my enthusiasm,” she replied, winsome. “I am eager to see Redcliffe and its castle. I have read so much about the Guerrin family.” 

“It’s not that special,” Alistair countered, looking down at the blanketed lump that was his sister-warden. “Though I suppose it does look quite dramatic if you’re seeing it for the first time - the castle,” he clarified. “It’s built- ”

“On a great promontory of rock known as Idelson’s Fall,” Leliana finished, promptly. “Named for the fifth arl of Redcliffe.” 

Alistair eyed her. “Well, aren’t you a font of knowledge. Did you swallow a history book for desserts last night?”

The bard laughed and demurred a response.

Flora emerged from beneath the blanket, no longer able to ignore the conversation above her head. She sat up, hair a volcano mid-explosion, and ground her knuckles into her eyes. 

“Hnghh- ”

“Morning. Sleep well?” Alistair asked, and there was a latent meaning to the question. 

“Mm,” she replied drowsily, blinking as the dawn came into focus around her. “Yes. I dreamed that I fished up a talking octopus. And it tried to tell me its life story but I killed and ate it.”

_ No Archdemon.  _

The Wardens emerged from their tent into a cool-toned watercolour morning; the sky an alkaline blue and the grass stiff with hoarfrost. The Qunari’s tent had already been dismantled and rolled with utilitarian efficiency; Sten himself was nowhere to be seen. Morrigan was standing beside a chattering fire, looking distinctly pleased with herself. In deference to the colder temperature, she wore a rust-coloured fur over her shoulders. It smelt raw and bloody ; shreds of muscle still clung to the inside of the pink skin. Instead of emerging from a tanner’s workshop, this hide had been brutally - and recently - extracted from the flesh by tooth and claw.

“I see some poor fox got on your bad side this morning,” Alistair observed, retrieving his boots. “The freshly blooded look suits you.”

“Such a droll ‘wit’,” retorted Morrigan archly, stepping aside and flailing a long-nailed hand towards a spitting pan. “I have done you a favour and begun your breakfast. I am not sure that Mother would have been so keen for me to accompany you if my only role was to start your fire each morning.” 

“I’m sure the Darkspawn horde will catch us up soon enough,” replied Alistair, eyeing the contents of the pan dubiously. “Or more of Mac Tir’s hired idiots, and then you can unleash your wrath on them. Hey, you haven’t added anything  _ strange  _ to these sausages, have you?”

If Morrigan had been a bird, her feathers would have stood on end in indignation.

“I certainly have  _ not,”  _ she hissed, looking ready to knock the pan into the flames. “Forgive me for expecting some  _ gratitude!”  _

Flora, used to being the sole voice of reconciliation during Herring’s frequent fights and feuds, interceded. 

“Thank you very much,” she said, nudging Alistair discreetly with an elbow. “You must have got up early to do all that. I found you some more nettles down by the lake. For your tea.” 

Flora had noticed the witch steeping leaves in hot water to create a  _ tisane _ ; though Morrigan had never spoken of it directly. From the crook of Morrigan’s eyebrow, she had not realised that her morning habit had been observed. She accepted the bundle of nettles without a word. 

“Doesn’t it sting your throat when you drink it?” Flora asked, through a mouthful of sore fingers.

“No,” Flemeth’s daughter replied after a moment, eyeing her thoughtfully. “The nettles lose their bite after they’re boiled.”

As Morrigan had indignantly declared, the sausages had nothing added to them save for a pinch of sage. The sun, a glacial disc against a wash of duck-egg blue, inched higher as they ate; though a misting cloud was already making incursions on the horizon. After they had eaten, Leliana asked if anybody wished to accompany her down to the shore to wash. Flora, nostalgic for the days where she had bathed in the open ocean, readily agreed. Morrigan, who did not want to wash in frigid water but also did not want to be left alone with Alistair beside the fire, responded by contorting herself into a crow and winging upwards. 

Alistair occupied himself with sorting out the tent that he and Flora had slept in; rolling up the bedrolls and slinging their packs into the cart. As he balanced a precarious stack of blankets in his arms, a skein of long red hair detached itself from the pillow and clung to his shirt. He caught it with an impulsive finger, then swore under his breath as the rest of the bedding tumbled to the ground. 

Leliana returned just as Sten appeared between the trees, his makeshift spear balanced on a shelflike shoulder. 

“There are no enemies in the vicinity,” the Qunari stated bluntly, depositing the sharpened fence post. “I do not understand why - given your circumstances - you have not set up a system of watches and patrols.” 

“We didn’t really think about that,” said Alistair, abashed. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll mention it to my… to Flora when she gets back. Where is she?”

This was directed towards Leliana, who had just retrieved an enamelled comb from her satchel. 

“Following,” the lay sister replied airily, sliding the prongs through the vibrant copper. “She was busy removing all the bodily hair below her eyebrows for some Maker-known reason: I think the word she used was,  _ ‘descaling’  _ herself?” 

“Like a fish,” said Alistair, wryly. “Sounds about right.” 

Fortunately, the imminent prospect of Redcliffe preoccupied much of his attention; or else his mind would have followed Leliana’s response to an intensely distracting conclusion. 

“Alistair.”

He startled, glancing upwards. The lay sister had finished combing her hair and was now lacing it in a pattern of intricate braids. She had no need of a mirror; her fingers wove the slender strands with habitual ease. 

“Hm?”

“Did you hear anything…  _ unusual  _ last night?”

The melancholy song of battle: drifting intangible as mist along the cliffs. Alistair had convinced himself that it was his imagination; that tiredness and the residual panic over his sister-warden’s nightmare had manifested conflict in his mind.

“Yes,” he said, then felt a stab of doubt. “Maybe? I thought I heard fighting, coming from the south, but… I don’t know, I assumed I’d imagined it.”

Leliana’s shapely brows rose but she did not reply; turning her face towards the horizon, towards Redcliffe.

A barefooted Flora came dripping up the grassy slope shortly afterwards, her hair hanging in a sodden mass to her waist. Sinking down beside the remains of the fire, she began to wring out the worst of the moisture. After a few moments, she felt the prickle of Sten’s mild disinterest; looking up to see his stare on her.

“That mane is highly impractical for battle,” he said, lip curling. “Not only does it draw the eye, but it provides a handhold for the enemy to expose your neck.”

“I don’t go into battle,” came the muffled response, head upside-down before the fire. 

“You are a mage.” 

“Just a mender.”

Sten eyed her, the ashen brow furrowing.

“Then why do you not ‘mend’ the injury to your knee? I observed you limping last night.”

Flora emerged from beneath her hair.

“I can’t mend it,” she replied succinctly, aware that the laconic Sten would not care about the explanation. “I have to live with it. It ain’t too bad.”

The Qunari tightened his mouth for a moment, then produced something from within his tunic. It was a skein of narrow leather, oiled and supple. He canted his chin abruptly towards her:  _ knee.  _ Astonished, Flora stuck out her leg. The woollen trousers - originally owned by a far taller male - sagged loose; she rolled the end in a bundle above her knee. The joint seemed innocuous enough, pale and curved like the exterior of a seashell. Flora eyed it with faint resentment: it did not seem fair that something should  _ seem  _ well enough on the outside, and yet be less than well within. 

_ On the other hand  _ \- the thought was laced with melancholy -  _ it’s a reminder of Ostagar. Of the Wardens, lying broken on the valley floor. Of Dunc -  _

** _Stop being so maudlin, you silly child, _ ** snarled her general in her ear.  ** _You aren’t grown enough to wax lyrical. And enough of this girlish infatuation with a man who failed to observe the boundaries of his command._ **

Flora put her fingers in her ears, although this would do nothing to silence the voice in her head. Fortunately, her general’s attention was diverted elsewhere; caught by some passing shade or flicker of memory. 

Meanwhile, Sten had not been bothered by her lack of attention - indeed; he seemed to prefer it when she did  _ not _ speak - and while she had been distracted, he had efficiently wound the leather strap around the weak joint. The band was narrow enough to allow flexibility, yet firm enough to provide support: immediately, yesterday’s residual ache was suppressed. 

“Oh,” she said as he sat back on his haunches, then rose like a mountain thrust from the soil. “Thank you very much.” 

Sten inclined his head a fraction: if nothing else, he appreciated her plain, meticulous politeness. Flora stretched her leg out, then bent it double; the band moved easily with the flesh. 

“Better?” Alistair asked, keeping his eyes averted from her slender calf.

“Mm, yes.”

The Qunari began to turn away, then returned his unblinking stare to Flora’s face. 

“My tent fell down last night,” he stated, unamused. “While I was in it.” 

“Ooh! Oh dear.” 

“I will assemble it myself in the future.”

* * *

Their camp was dismantled in short time: Alistair crushed the remnants of the fire beneath his boot, the last of the cooking apparatus was bundled into the cart, and they were on the road again. The cloud had settled against the winter sky: a filmy wash of grey with ragged patches of whitish yellow where the sunlight had broken through. Lake Calenhad stretched out like a silver platter; sunk into a basin of ruddy cliffs. Their road followed the contour of the land, meandering south towards the inlet where Redcliffe lay. They met no other travellers; save for a harried crofter pushing a handcart who ignored their greeting. 

Alistair, who had fallen into an uncharacteristic silence, elected to drive the cart. He perched on the forward seat, reins in hand, gazing pensively at the road before them. If he remembered any part of the rural landscape that surrounded them, he made no mention of it. Sten, keen to avoid the conversation between the two redheads, walked alongside the mule’s head. Morrigan winged her way overhead, wheeling in languid circles 

“I set down my lute when I entered the service of the Chantry,” Leliana was saying, perched elegantly on a crate in the rear of the cart. “Yet sometimes my fingers move as though the strings were still beneath them. This is what you saw me do,  _ oui?” _

She demonstrated with a graceful flutter. 

“Yes,” said Flora, wedged beside the lumpen mass of Alistair’s pack. “Your hands were twitching. I thought you had fiddlewrist, I was going to cure you. Don’t they allow lutes in the Chantry, then?”

There had been a small group of mages in the Circle who had formed a musical quartet; two played the lute, one the harp, and the last beat the tabor drum. As a result, Flora could name each instrument; and was astonished to learn that the bard had mastered all of them. 

“Only the voice was permitted in the cloisters,” Leliana replied, turning her head to admire the sunlight skimming the water. “Though I may see if there is a lute for purchase in Redcliffe village. I do not mean to offend the Maker, but I miss playing music of a more…  _ secular _ nature.” 

A mid-morning breeze had sprung up with enthusiasm, chopping the surface of Lake Calenhad into rippled peaks. The unseen channels of air passing through the pines sounded like fractious, whispered conversation, as though their imminent arrival at Redcliffe was the subject of intense debate. The road followed the writhing topography of the lake’s shore and Redcliffe lay only a candle-length away. 

“Mm,” agreed Flora, who had no idea what secular meant. However, the glimpse of silver tucked close into the bard’s side had reminded her of a task that she had almost forgotten. “Could I borrow your knife?” 

The bard smiled kindly, her blue eyes sparking like magefire. 

“Which one?” 

If Alistair had been in the usual state of mind, he would have made a comment in the spirit of:  _ Of course the ‘lay sister’ carries more blades than a knifesmith.  _ Yet he was in a strange mood; the red cliffs and placid inlets of Calenhad had revived old memories and old hurts. He was not sure that he was looking forward to seeing Eamon again, despite the kindness that the arl had shown him for the first decade of his life. He knew for certain that he was not looking forward to seeing the arl’s wife; and that she would be equally displeased to see him. 

“I want to cut my hair,” Flora was saying in the meantime, clutching the pack as the cart lurched over a pothole. “Sten was right: it is too long.” 

Leliana’s smile widened, though a faint indent furrowed itself simultaneously across her brow. 

“I would be delighted to assist, if it please you,” she replied, with measured eagerness. “When we next stop - for surely you cannot mean to  _ coupe tes cheveux  _ in this lolloping cart? - I could feather in some long layers to frame the eyes, perhaps a side-sweep to the fringe, or a flattering- ” ”

The lay sister’s face contorted itself in silent horror: while she had been rhapsodising, Flora had bent double, anchored the end of her ponytail unceremoniously beneath her muddied boot, and begun to hack through the plump rope of hair like a butchering apprentice with their first carcass. Leliana mouthed, appalled, as uneven skeins of dark red drifted to the floor of the cart. There was almost a foot in disparity between the strands: when Flora next loosed her hair, it would fall in a ragged diagonal from her shoulder blade to her waist.

_ “Créateur,”  _ breathed Leliana faintly, as Flora tied the uneven remnants of her hair in a lopsided knot on the crown of her head. “I do not know what to say. I am dumbstruck like the famous martyr Pellanus.”

“Who? It’ll grow back the next time I mend,” Flora replied, wholly unbothered. “Or shield something. It’s really annoying. I wish I was bald.” 

Alistair snorted to himself from the front of the cart. He could not afford to look around: the track’s condition had worsened, with loose gravel and potholes demanding his attention. The autumnal hoarfrost had eroded the surface; though this damage had been sustained over weeks, rather than days. Nowhere was Eamon’s absence from the maintenance of his arling more obvious than the deterioration of the roads. 

“If I was bald,” Flora continued, warming to the idea. “I’d be more  _ streamlined  _ underwater. I could swim like an eel.” 

The chopping of her hair had clearly whetted her appetite for further modifications. Leliana watched in mild dismay as she sliced off the legs of her overlong woollen trousers at the knee; then set about the sleeves of her coat. Only once Flora’s garments had been clumsily hacked down to size did she return the knife, oddly pleased with herself. 

The lay sister surveyed her from across the cart: the trailing bun that sat askew atop Flora’s head; the ugly woollen coat; the trousers brutally amputated at the knees, both legs a different length. Each limb of her garments was fraying, the slender body entirely disguised within a mass of bulky wool.

“The Maker has blessed you with a face that occurs perhaps once in an Age,” the bemused bard said at last, eyeing the bitten fingernails circling the hilt of the blade as it was handed back. “I know that to be prideful is a sin, but you seem to have such…  _ utter disregard  _ for your beauty. May I ask why?”

Flora shrugged a shoulder; the gesture dwarfed by the loose folds of her coat. There were gulls arcing in the sky overhead and she watched them with the baleful, slitted eye of a fisherman guarding a catch. 

“Dunno,” she replied, vaguely. “It ain’t really that  _ useful _ , is it? It weren’t useful in Herring. And they don’t care about your face in the Circle, just about… what you know. What you can do. And I didn’t know nothing.”

Leliana was about to respond when they emerged from the trees and Redcliffe appeared below them like a book opening to reveal an illustrated centrefold. Alistair drew on the reins reflexively and the mule lurched to a halt: all occupants shifting to gain a better view. 

The town was a district larger than Lothering; a mismatched jumble of rooftops in red clay and slate. Most of the larger buildings were crowded beside the lakeshore; while smaller workshops and private dwellings clung to haphazard shelves hewn into the ruddy cliff. Stone walls ran everywhere like a child’s scribblings. A series of huts and walkways extended out into Calenhad’s placid waters; ending in a jetty that sprouted several small boats. A market square near the wood-beamed Chantry was lined with empty stalls. 

Presiding over the village, Castle Redcliffe sat like an old and squat king: vast and only partially decayed. It clung to a thrust of stone, accessible by a granite arch of precarious slenderness. The heraldry of the Guerrin dynasty hung from the crenellated walls: banners as vast as bedsheets, emblazoned with a grey keep on a red mound. It was a formidable sight: given the nation’s turbulent history, most Ferelden castles were built as fortresses rather than palaces. 

It was the largest settlement that Flora had ever seen. She knelt up in the rear of the cart, one palm on the rail to keep her balance, and gazed at the town sprawled below. Alistair, seated at the reins, had fallen very quiet: his back was turned and no one could see his expression. 

“Defensible,” observed Sten in the usual laconic style, giving a taut nod of approval.

“Idelson’s Fall is even more magnificent than I believed,” Leliana breathed at last, her eyes greedily scouring the scene. “What a view Arl Eamon must enjoy. Imagine waking every morning and looking out over the whole lake.” 

“It doesn’t sound as though the man has been doing much of that of late.” 

Morrigan had reappeared beside the cart; brushing stray feathers from her hair as she surveyed the town. “Since, according to rumour, he is ailing and like to die. ‘Tis most unfortunate timing, considering current events.” 

“He’s  _ not _ going to die.” 

It was the first that Alistair had spoken in an hour, and there was an agitated edge to the words.

“Eamon can’t die,” the young Warden continued, and it seemed as though he were talking to himself more than the rest of the party. “He’s the best candidate for king now that Cailan is dead. He’s not got royal blood, but he was Cailan’s uncle; he’s popular with the Bannorn and the Commons… the Landsmeet would vote for him.” 

The more he spoke, the more it seemed as though he was trying to convince himself of the fact. 

“What are you rambling on about?” interjected Morrigan, eyes narrowed. 

Alistair dropped the reins with a fatalistic abruptness, turning towards his startled sister-warden. There was an odd tension constricting his features that she had never seen before; even in the hollow aftermath of their failure at Ostagar. 

“Flora?”

She looked at him, her eyes pale and searching. 

“I need to talk to you about something.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a bitty chapter,’ I wanted them to actually arrive in Redcliffe but then I saw I’d hit 4000 words and decided to pause, lol. I wanted to evoke the spirit of party banter in this chapter, I love all the little conversations that happen in game between your companions so I wanted a chapter where lots of little snippets of conversations take place. I’m glad that people like my camp chapters haha, i do love writing them. I also love it when Flora’s spirits call her out haha
> 
> I hope everyone stays safe, the world is a bit of a crazy place at the moment!! 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Oh the chapter name is a reference to the binding on Flora’s knee, the Wardens holding hands as they sleep; and Alistair’s memories of his childhood in Redcliffe


	41. Alistair’s Secret

Alistair held Flora’s gaze without blinking, and there was a grim resignation in the way that he held his mouth. The reins sat motionless in his lap; the mule ducked its head to nuzzle at the dirt. The only sound was the low drone of water coursing down the cliff-face nearby, one of several slender waterfalls that fed into the southern part of Lake Calenhad. They gleamed like silver ribbons draped against the florid rocks; spanned by wooden arches where they cut across a manmade road. Ahead was a signpost marking a divergence in the track: an elevated path led to the thread of rock linking Castle Redcliffe to the mainland, while a gentler slope descended to the lake and the village below. 

Flora nodded, extracting herself from between various pieces of baggage and stepping carefully over Leliana. The bard was quivering with curiosity; her ears pricked like a _ halla _scenting the wind. Alistair clambered down from the front of the cart, patting the mule’s neck distractedly as he waited for his sister-warden. When she appeared with her newly shorn garments and lopsided hair, a half-smile pulled at the end of his mouth, but there was little humour in it. He cast a swift glance over his shoulder. Leliana was leaning forward with an ear tilted towards them, while Morrigan’s casual indifference was not entirely convincing. The Qunari alone seemed utterly uninterested; his scowl suggested that he was more annoyed at the delay. 

“Come on.” 

Alistair strode ahead to where one of the small bridges spanned a narrow fall of water; elevated thirty feet above a rocky concourse. Flora followed him, casting another awestruck glance at the sprawling town below. 

“Redcliffe is _ huge,” _she observed as they came to a halt on the bridge, raising her voice above the growl of tumbling water. “Is it as big as Denerim?” 

“What?” Alistair blinked; distracted from his train of thought. “Oh. No, Denerim is much bigger.” 

Flora turned her face into the misting spray of the water, fingers curling over the railing. The pile of wet red rocks below gleamed like a dragon’s hoard of precious stones. 

_ “How _much bigger?”

He gave a brief shrug. “Not sure. Ten times?”

Flora was too astonished to reply. She envisioned humans and elves - were there elves in cities? - packed together like crabs in a bucket; writhing and squirming over one another. She wondered how anyone ever got anything done, since they must constantly get in each other’s way. Herring was a small sickle-shaped scattering of buildings on a crag of granite: the occupant of the northernmost building could step outside and have a conversation with the southernmost resident without raising his voice. 

“Anyway, Flo- ”

Flora turned away from the waterfall, wiping strands of damp hair from her eyes. Alistair was prowling the narrow breath of the bridge like a caged Mabari, a bright agitation contorting the handsome features.

“Eh,” she said: northern parlance for, _ what’s wrong? _

He stopped abruptly mid-stride and turned towards her.

“Remember when I told you about my - my parents? After I said I was raised by a pack of Mabari.” 

“Mm,” replied Flora, recalling the conversation. They had been approaching the Kingsway at the time: a white stone spine of archways rising above the grassland. “You said that everyone thought Arl Eamon was your dad, but he weren’t. Your mum was a servant at Redcliffe Castle. Your dad was a slippery fish.” 

Alistair looked nonplussed.

“Didn’t stick around,” she clarified, her pale eyes set on him. “Did I forget anything?”

“No. No, that’s all I told you at the time- I didn’t - ” 

Her brother-warden broke off mid-sentence, turning and staring up at the imposing limestone facade of Idelson’s Fall. The rocky promontory dominated the landscape of the southern part of Lake Calenhad: it was clear why the castle perched on its head had never been seized by any external foe. Flora crossed the breadth of the bridge and stood beside him, though her eyes dropped to the wooden jetty that extended into the shallows like a probing finger. She counted eight fishing boats moored to the quay, and wondered why they had not yet set out on the water.

“I know who my father is - was,” Alistair said, very softly. “He came to the castle while on one of the royal tours around the country - I think they call them progresses. His wife had been dead for a few years by then.” 

Flora peered sideways at her brother-warden, noticing the clench of the jaw and the tension pulling his mouth taut. She had no idea what he was talking about, and had never heard of _ progresses, _but decided not to ask for clarification. The next words that Alistair spoke emerged in a crowded tangle; like drunk patrons stumbling through the door of a tavern. 

“Flora, my father was Maric.”

He paused, held his breath in his lungs; looking at her from the tail of his eye. 

“Who?” asked Flora.

“Maric Theirin,” Alistair continued, grimly. 

The name stirred a faint memory in the depths of her mind, buried in layers of silt. She could not grasp it; it slithered away as though oiled. 

“The old king,” he continued, mouth twisting in a grimace at the last word. “Which makes- _ made - _Cailan my half-brother, I suppose.” 

Flora turned her face fully towards him, her eyes expanding like silvered platters as she realised the gravity of his revelation. 

“You’re a _ noble?!” _she breathed, astonished. 

_ “No!” _ Alistair replied, louder than he had intended. “No, I’m not. I’m just a bastard. A mistake born from a stupid half-candle’s worth of lust. Maybe not even that.”

The words collided with each other as they poured from his mouth, each one run through with bitterness. Resentment made him seem older: the handsome face hollowed and the hazel eyes sharp as flint. 

“I only saw Maric once my whole life - he came to Redcliffe with Cailan - and he didn’t even _ look _at me. Even though he knew who I was.” 

Flora leaned her elbows on the wooden railing, her face damp from the waterfall’s misting aura.

“Being a bastard ain’t nothing,” she said measuredly, after a moment of thought. “I’m one. No one ever gets married in Herring, we ain’t got a priestess and our Chantry got turned into lobster pot storage.”

Alistair let out an involuntary half-laugh; glancing down at her. She reached out a hand and he took it without hesitation in a way that would have been unthinkable before they had survived Ostagar. 

“And a baby is never a mistake,” Flora continued; her soft, hoarse voice assured. “If this ‘Maric’ ignored you, that was _ his _mistake.” 

Flora was none too impressed with the array of nobles she had come to know so far: neither Loghain, nor Cailan, nor this _ Maric _held a high place in her esteem. She could not see how her brother-warden - kind, wry and raw beneath the humour - could be related by blood to Cailan; who had once forbidden her to speak because he found her commoner’s cadence unattractive. 

Alistair exhaled slowly, shaking his head. He could feel the throb of her pulse in her palm, and realised that he was holding her hand so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. Flora didn’t seem to mind; on the contrary, she seemed rather impressed by the strength of his grip. He wondered if she was judging his ability to haul fishing boats up the beach, or pull up a net against the covetous tug of the tide. His sister-warden still tested any new experience against the hallmark of Herring; as though her four year tenure at the Circle had passed in a single, inconsequential blink of the eye.

“Arl Eamon knew, then?” She watched the lazy scud of cloud across the sky; sunlight breaking through in ragged patches.

“It’s why he took me in after my mother died. The Landsmeet wanted to keep an eye on me, I suppose. Even Duncan treated me differently because of it.”

Each sentence emerged with difficulty, as though the words had grown small barbs and clung to the inside of his throat. He had not even darted a swift glance at her to see how she reacted to the name of their commander. 

“I wonder what kind of fish they catch in Redcliffe,” Flora said after a moment, squeezing Alistair’s cold fingers between hers. _ “Freshwater fish. _I bet they don’t taste as good as what we get from the sea.” 

Alistair blinked; confused and yet inexplicably relieved. 

“Is… is that it?”

“Eh?”

“You don’t want to ask me anything… anything more about it? I was preparing to answer _ no _ or _ I don’t know _to a dozen questions.” 

Flora turned her pale eyes on him. “Do you _ want _ me to ask about it?” 

“No, not really. I just… I didn’t want the arl to give it away first.”

She peered at him more closely, her brows lifting a fraction. He realised that she did not entirely understand the implications of it: the fact that he was now the sole remaining son of the Theirin dynasty; that - in the eyes of those who might wish to counter Loghain - this made him a valuable asset in the challenge for supremacy. Such political considerations were far beyond the limited reach of her experience. Despite this, he believed that Flora understood well-enough that he was the son and the brother of two dead kings; and that this was important enough to be kept secret for the two decades of his life. 

“I know what Eamon’s going to say,” he said after a brief pause. “He’ll say: _ Theirin blood runs in you, Alistair, and now runs in you alone. _ I’ll have to put my fingers in my ears and go: _ la la la.” _

Flora could see a thin pillar of smoke rising from the village below. She hoped that Redcliffe was not on fire. 

“I’m a mender,” she said, shoulder rising in a shrug. “Blood is something that goes round our body and keeps us living. It doesn’t change according to who your parents were. Our family name ain’t writ along our veins. My blood is the same as your blood.”

“Tell that to the Landsmeet,” Alistair replied, but the brittleness had eased from his words. 

“I will,” she replied mildly, watching the smoke wend its way slowly upwards. There must have been a breath of air altering its course; she could taste burnt ash on her tongue. 

“Actually, the Theirin bloodline is rumoured to contain dragonblood.” 

Flora and Alistair both looked around to see the cart, mule, Morrigan and Leliana now standing only a few yards away; shamelessly eavesdropping. In an effort to feign innocence, the bard had kept the same stance and demeanour as she had done when the cart was further away. Her attempt at subterfuge was sabotaged by the Qunari, who stood glowering in his original position; alone on the road. 

“Prince Alistair,” said Morrigan evilly; her eyes alight with the promise of a new irritating moniker. _ “Ha!” _

Alistair groaned; dropping Flora’s hand and dragging his palm over his face.

“No, thanks. And - _ dragonblood? Really? _I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.” 

Leliana abandoned the pretense that she had not been eavesdropping, descending from the cart and joining them on the bridge. Redcliffe lay below them; the houses built on its upper slopes supported by struts sunk into the earth. Although it was the middle of the day - and it was supposedly a market town - there was little discernible activity. The scene could have been a landscape in oils: _ Fereldan Village at Rest. _

“I would be surprised if more people did not know, Alistair,” the bard continued, her gaze also settling on the column of smoke. “I have only seen Cailan in portraiture, but you have a far stronger look of Maric.”

Alistair grunted; darting a sideways glance at Flora. She was looking at the fishing boats, inexplicably still moored at the jetty despite the calm waters and rainless skies. 

“And all the Theirins are built like blacksmiths,” finished Leliana with an appraising slant in her tone. “I guessed your heritage when you first stood up in Dane’s Refuge.”

“Great,” he replied, drily. “Well done. Very observant of you.”

“Why ain’t the boats out?” 

A belligerent Flora was now standing on the lower rail of the bridge, leaning on the upper and craning her neck towards the town below. Her brow was creased like folded parchment, her fingers curled around the wood. 

“It’s nice weather,” she added, canting her head towards the pallid wash of cloud overhead. “The water is flat. But no one’s on it.” 

She was irrationally irritated: the fishermen of Redcliffe had no angry waves, no shifting tides, no sly currents to contend with; they had the fortune to draw their catches from docile waters, _ and no one was out. _

“Do you ever stop thinking about fish?” Morrigan enquired archly, though her yellow eyes were also set on the unnatural stillness of the town below. “It’s bordering on an _ obsession.” _

“Let’s go,” said Alistair, deciding that he just wanted to get his homecoming over with. “There’s a decent tavern we can stop at - the Gull and Lantern. If I remember right, they do a beef stew that I think has _ actual cow _in it.”

They set off once again; Leliana taking the reins as the mule ambled over the wooden bridge. The road was hemmed by the ruddy cliff on their right; the left led to a precarious drop. Fortunately they met no travellers heading towards them since the cart left little room for other traffic. Strings of grubby cloud tangled overhead like a sheep’s fleece, set against a background of jaundiced sky. It was not a wintery morning of the sort that might inspire bards: it had dawned a sallow and unhealthy day. A flock of small, dark-feathered birds took off from the fence as they approached; like cinders blown sideways by the wind. 

Sten strode on ahead, his improvised polearm resting with ease over a broad shoulder. He had barely spoken a word since they had dismantled their camp: he bristled with readiness like a war hound. 

“As we journey further,” he said unexpectedly, addressing thin air in light of the fact that there was no clear commander present. “I would recommend scouting out a settlement before plunging blindly in. There could be assailants lying in wait. A trap set ahead.”

All heads turned towards him; he shifted his shoulders irritably as though shaking off their stares. 

“How would you recommend we proceed in the future, then?” enquired Leliana, steering the mule away from a small slippage of red rock. “I have some skill in concealment.”

While the unlikely pair discussed strategy, Flora sat in the back of the cart and mulled over her brother-warden’s revelations. He had confessed his parentage with the same abashed demeanour of a perennial sinner; which confused the practical Flora, since she could not see how he was at fault for the circumstances of his birth. As far as she was concerned, he had grown up a commoner like herself - well, perhaps not _ quite _like herself, for childhood in Herring seemed to be a unique experience - and thus there was no reason why she should view him any differently.

Her teeth clattered like Antivan castanets in her head as a distracted Leliana failed to avoid a second pothole. She knew that a king was first amongst nobles, and that nobles were set above the common folk; although she did not entirely understand _ why _. 

_ Who decides who’s king? _

** _In Ferelden? _ **

_ Mm. _

** _In law: whoever has the support of the Landsmeet and the commons. In practice: whoever has the larger army._ **

_ Why do we have a king, and Orlais has an emperor? _

Her spirits remained silent; aware that any attempt to explain the complexities of Ages-old geo-politics to a girl with no formal education would be utterly futile. 

After realising that her question had been ignored, Flora set her eyes on Alistair. He was walking to the rear of the cart, several yards behind. His handsome face was shrouded with apprehension; the jaw clenched hard enough to carve hollows beneath the angular cheekbones. His gloved hands made restless clenched fists at his side, as though he had forgotten how to use them. 

Flora slithered inelegantly off the end of the cart, grateful for Sten’s strapping around her knee.

“Alistair,” she hissed, desiring to avoid the attention of their companions. “Alistair.”

He startled, then flashed her a wan smile. 

“Alright, Flo?”

She paused in the road until he had caught up to her, falling into step beside him. There was a foot of disparity in their heights; it took her a moment to match his pace. 

“Did I say the right thing just now?” 

He looked down at her: her pale stare was fixed unblinking on his face. 

“What do you mean?”

Flora kept anxious eyes on him. 

“Noone’s ever told me that they were the son of a king before. We don’t get many of them in Herring. People tend to avoid us.”

He snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I never would have guessed.” 

She persisted, not willing to let him deflect with humour. 

“I’m sorry if I didn’t say the right thing. I still don’t… don’t really know what to say about it.”

“I don’t really know what to _ think _ about it,” Alistair replied, wryly. “I’ve been trying _ not _to think about it for over ten years.” 

“It don’t change anything,” she said, then clarified hastily. “For _ me. _I mean, it might mean something to other people.” 

Flora could understand Alistair’s apprehension: in her healer’s view, blood was a substance created by the body for the purpose of sustaining life; in the mind of men like Arl Eamon, blood could carry an additional, inexplicable significance.

“But you’ll always be my brother-warden,” she informed him, solemnly. “Unless you decide different.” 

She reached out and gave his hand a hard and capable squeeze, as though he were a boat she was hauling by rope to shore. Alistair returned her grip for a brief, fervent instant; deliberately averting his gaze as he blinked rapidly. 

“Thanks, Flo.” 

“Mm.”

They walked in silence for some minutes, following the ruts dug into the ground by the cartwheels. The constant sibilant hiss of running water filled the air around them: Calenhad demanded a hundred tributaries to keep itself full, and waterfalls lined the cliffs like stripes of silvered paint. 

“I don’t know nothing about Maric,” Flora said as they crossed yet another wooden bridge behind the ambling cart. “I know more about Old Edemonem.” 

“Who?” It was not a name that Alistair had heard in any Chantry classroom. 

She shot him a solemn look from the corner of her eye. 

“He once ruled the seabed between Ferelden and the Marches. I’ll tell you about him tonight, if you like.” 

He grinned. “You’re the first person to ever tell me bedtime stories. You don’t think I’m too old for them?” 

Flora was astonished. “Never too old for stories. I got loads of ‘em.”

_ “Good,” _ Alistair said, surprised at how passionate the word emerged. “Good, because I want to hear them all.” 

She smiled at him, then her gaze glanced off his face as a new sound caught her attention. The sloping path had levelled out; they had finally descended to Calenhad’s shoreline. A mill perched on a rocky bluff nearby, the fins of the great wheel catching the runoff from a waterfall. It groaned as it spun: the joints were rusting and needed oiling. 

The cart came to an abrupt halt in the road before them. They heard Leliana draw in a startled breath, the reins falling in a leathery slither onto her lap. Before the bard had finished her sudden inhalation, Alistair had strode forward to retrieve his sword from the rear of the cart; seamlessly withdrawing it from the scabbard and readying himself. 

Together, the Wardens advanced around the motionless cart, expecting to see some less-than-friendly welcoming party: a cluster of mercenaries, or perhaps a pack of rogue Darkspawn that had somehow traced their steps. For a brief, giddying moment Alistair thought that they might see Loghain Mac Tir himself glowering at the outskirts of Redcliffe. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword as the blood surged hot and angry in his veins.

Yet when they reached the head of the mule, no threat was manifest on the road ahead. Instead, a miserable huddle of bleak-faced villagers stood to the side; watching soldiers toss wood onto a vast and smoking human pyre. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol this was only meant to be a short chapter and it’s ended up 3.5k words! 
> 
> I wanted to emphasise a few things here: firstly, that Flora isn’t sure that she handled the conversation with Alistair well and instigating a second part - I thought this was more realistic because, since when do you always say the right thing at the right time? She was just a bit overwhelmed at first which is why she starts talking about freshwater fish haha. Secondly I wanted to show how Flora is naive and uneducated, but has perceptive insights and is an expert on Herring lore! Lore which I’m just totally making up hahaha 
> 
> Now onto Redcliffe and the zombie monster attacks from the castle :O 
> 
> Hope everyone is staying home and washing their hands <3


	42. The Ellyn Dynge

The sight was incongruous to the eye: as though someone’s nightmare had bled into daylight. Slate-roofed dwellings lined the hillside in crooked avenues; the lake stretched out vast and serene in the background. The sun, with the sadistic timing of a nooseman, had thrown off its veil of cloud to illustrate the scene below. This was no typical Fereldan funeral: no priestess paced with censor swinging, no Chanter droned in monotone exaltation to the Maker. The pyre had not been constructed with loving reverence, nor interwoven with straw from the bed of the deceased, nor lined with their garments. It resembled more a large bonfire, hastily and sloppily constructed; with a pile of naked corpses flung haphazard on top. The soldiers responsible were already retreating; the villagers watched their dead burn with cavernous eyes. 

Leliana, appalled at such abandonment of ritual and tradition, uttered something unintelligible in Orlesian. The cart now halted, she clambered down from the driver’s seat and strode towards the makeshift pyre. Alistair sheathed his sword and followed her, an astonished Flora at his side. 

“What is the meaning of this - this _ disrespectful display?” _the lay sister demanded of the startled group, her voice fletched with outrage. “How are the souls of the dead meant to seek out the Maker without proper dispatch? Where is the priestess? Your Chantry Mother?” 

“Dead,” came the succinct response from a man at the edge of the crowd; his body hunched as if a great hand was pressing on him from above. His eyes were sunk into deep grooves and the hair on his head sprouted in patches, as though clumps had fallen out. 

Leliana blinked, but ploughed on regardless. 

“What about your lay-brothers? They are able to carry out the cremation rites in certain circumstances.” 

He made a half-hearted gesture towards the bonfire. The flames were consuming the bodies now; gnawing their way through flesh and muscle. The column of smoke that they had sighted on the approach was oily and dark: it left fingerprints of ash on the faces of those watching. 

“One’s up there. The other will be by morning, judging by the state of ‘im.” 

Flora stepped forward, her mender’s mind fixing on the most obvious explanation. She could feel her magic rising in her throat; lustrous particles melting on the back of her tongue. Such a response was instinctual: she could sense that there was work to be done nearby. 

“Is it plague?” 

This would account for the swiftness of the dead’s disposal; in cases of infectious disease, bodies were burnt as quickly as possible to prevent further spread. 

“No,” replied the man, reluctantly admiring her even while bent beneath the heavy cloak of exhaustion. “No plague. We’re under attack.”

There was a ripple of interest through the small crowd as Morrigan and Sten came forward. In normal times, the sight of a staff-wielding sorceress and a vast, glowering Qunari would prompt consternation. Now, the villagers turned eyes of tentative hope towards the new arrivals; a collective inhale passing through them.

“Have you come to help us?” called out a woman bearing a grubby child on her hip. “Maker be praised! We had given up on rescue. The arl’s knights have abandoned us to our fate.” 

Alistair shot a swift side-eye to Flora. She was thinking the same as he: recalling the group of Redcliffe knights in the tavern at Lothering. They had claimed to be searching for a cure for Arl Eamon’s ailing condition; as must the rest of the arl’s retainers. Based on the scowl embedded on Morrigan’s face, she had no intention of getting embroiled in Redcliffe’s problems. Still she said nothing, folding her lips until they formed a thin and disapproving line

But Flora was not looking at the witch: she was staring around at a town that did not resemble the tranquil settlement that they had viewed from the bridge. Now that they stood on the fringe of Redcliffe, she could see the cracks in the peaceful facade: the ground that looked as though it had been raked with a plough; the violent marks gouged into the walls; the window frames holding only a few ragged shards of glass. 

** _Signs of recent battle. _ **

_ I see them. _

** _Not merely recent, but recurrent battle. _ **

_ I thought it was odd that the boats weren’t out. _

“Under attack by what?” asked Alistair, trying unsuccessfully to mask his bewilderment. 

There was a silence in response. The crowd exhaled a brittle stillness. The pyre hissed and spat as it ate through fatty tissue; grease igniting with muffled pops. 

“Dead men,” said the woman with the child, eventually. “And monsters.”

Flora wondered if they were referring to Darkspawn, although she had never heard them named as _ dead men _before. ‘Monster’ seemed to suit them well enough, but then she recalled that Darkspawn hauled away their victims for purposes that she would rather not contemplate. There were at least a dozen bodies stacked on the giant pyre and they looked mostly intact. The flesh not yet consumed by flame was marked by injuries of battle, not the feral mauling of Darkspawn. 

Still, she thrust down this wondering for the moment since there was a more urgent matter to attend to. Her grief at seeing such wanton destruction of life had already been parcelled up and stowed in a side compartment of her mind. Later, she would open up the ship’s locker and mourn over the contents; but not when there were those who could still be helped. 

“I’m a mender,” she said, offering herself up like a platter of fruit. “Are there any wounded?” 

The man eyed her with naked doubt. Mages generally did not arrive looking dishevelled and clad in what appeared to be wool and sackcloth. Mages were erudite creatures draped in silken robes, fastidiously clean and with an air of general sophistication. He had not yet realised that Morrigan too was a mage: she had wisely stowed her staff in the cart for the time being. Flora, who frequently forgot that she even _ owned _ a staff, had mistaken it for a tentpole that morning and packed it away with the canvas.

“They’re in the Chantry,” he said at last, heavily. “But it’s a slaughterhouse in there. Not a sight for pretty girls.”

Flora ignored his last comment, having heard it in various disparaging iterations for much of her life. She had already spotted the metallic sun suspended on its twin spires above the rooftops; hung like a sacrifice cast in bronze

Alistair watched his sister-warden head between the buildings with a sense of mild misgiving: he wondered how any surviving priestess would react to the use of magic inside the church. He caught Leliana’s eye and canted his head in Flora’s wake. 

“Not all Chantry folk are as tolerant as you,” he murmured, letting his voice fall beneath the animal noise of the fire. “Can you keep an eye on - well, not _ her, _but those around her? I’ll deal with the cart.” 

Leliana dipped her head in acknowledgement. With a final, sorrowful look at the burning bodies, she too headed towards the Chantry’s suspended sun. 

Once Flora was in the midst of Redcliffe’s battle-scarred streets, she lost her bearings. Much of the town was built on stone terraces hewn into the red cliff; the roads ran at counter-angles to each other and there seemed to be no sense to the location of buildings. Humble, single-room dwellings sprouted like mushrooms between workshops and taverns; a blacksmith’s forge stood precariously close to a grainstore. She paused beside a half-tumbled wall and peered around, hoping that the Chantry’s suspended sun might reflect a ray of light from its authentic counterpart. Redcliffe, after all, was many times larger than Herring.

“This way.” 

The lay sister had a better sense of direction. Leliana strode past the smithy as though she had spent her childhood scampering along Redcliffe’s tangled roads. Flora followed her, swallowing gilded tendrils of magic as they bloomed within her throat. Her heart was knocking against her ribs like an unjustly caged prisoner: this would be the first time that she had faced a mass of critical casualties in half a decade. 

_ Slaughterhouse. A ‘slaughterhouse’, he said. That’s what it’s going to look like in there. _

There was a pause, and then an irritated response from her general. 

** _You’re a mender. Your trade is flesh and blood and bone. _ **

_ I know. It’s - it’s been a while since I’ve seen so many bad injuries at once. I hope it’s not too… too overwhelming. _

There was a pause, and then an opaque and formless whisper slid from a deeper part of the Fade. As always, Flora’s general rendered Compassion’s instruction in a language that the mortal girl could comprehend. 

** _Remember the Ellyn Dynge. _ **

The Redcliffe Chantry was larger than its counterpart in Lothering. Constructed from the ruddy stone that gave the arling its name, the wood-framed structure rose in three distinctive tiers; stained glass windows gleamed like the coral-hued eyes of a Par Vollen tiger. The bronze sunburst, elevated on twin struts, rose several dozen feet above the ground. As they drew nearer, they saw that the building bore its own battle-scars. One of the orange windows was blind and broken and the wooden doors were splintering in three places. Fortunately, the Chantry walls were built as thick as a fortress and little structural damage could be seen.

“The audacity of the Maker’s enemies,” breathed Leliana, smoothing down her hair to make herself neat. “Assaulting His sanctuary.” 

“I think they’re everyone’s enemies,” replied Flora gloomily, eyeing a suspicious stain on the nearby wall. “What do you think they could be? What’s a _ monster?” _

Leliana made a sound that was Orlesian for, _ I know not. _

The smaller door set into the vast wooden entrance swung open at Flora’s tentative nudge. A draft of cool, stagnant air escaped the hollow hall beyond and she wondered if all Chantries had the same vaguely mouldering smell. Diffused sunlight streamed at acute angles through the stained glass, illuminating scattered stretches of flagstone. The remnants of tallow candles dribbled from iron holsters: though between the patches of natural and artificial light, the hall was drowned in shadow. 

Despite the smoking flame at the altar and the half-sun cast in bronze hanging overhead, Redcliffe’s Chantry bore little resemblance to counterparts in other villages. Each wooden pew and bench had been reappropriated as an improvised barricade; the dawn door in the transept was obscured with furniture, as was the rear exit used by the priestesses. A broad wooden beam was lying near the main doors, ready to be slid into staples sunk into the oak.

Instead of reverent stillness, a terrible groaning filled the air. In the space where pews had once rested, pallet mattresses were spaced at intervals on the flagstones. Ten men and two women, each maimed with varying degrees of brutality, lay curled on the lumpen bedding. In some cases, crude bandages or poultices had been applied; in most, their wounds were left exposed and raw. A few uttered cries or curses, one murmured a feverish and unending prayer. Several lay as crooked and lifeless as a child’s thrown doll; their skin a waxy bluish grey. A naked corpse was folded in one corner, destined for tomorrow’s pyre. The air tasted stale and metallic; blood leaked across the flagstones and clotted in the cracks. In the midst of the wounded and dying knelt a harried priestess with skeins of greying hair escaping her hat; offering up her own ragged plea to the Maker. 

Flora inhaled a deep and steadying breath; filling her lungs and anchoring her feet to the ground. The first lesson that she could remember her spirits teaching her was to calm herself before healing; to pass a palm over any agitation in her mind and flatten it out. Her knee was a reminder of what could happen when she set about mending in the midst of distress. 

_ Twelve wounded. _

The light of the Chantry dimmed, as though the candles had been snuffed out and the sun sunk below the horizon. Faint in the distance came the roar of wind and water: the enraged howl of an approaching storm. Waves flung themselves against the walls with a cascade of muted crashes. Against the far wall rose the silhouette of a vast and splintering ship; caught in the ferocious clutch of the Hag’s Teeth. There was a wound in its hull large enough for a carriage to pass through; the wind had clawed the sails to shreds and little remained of the mast save for a splintered shard. The _ Ellyn Dynge _tilted on the reef like a dying animal; disgorging man and cargo into the eager maw of the Waking Sea. 

_ The sand was wet and formless beneath her feet; the wind blew her hair into her eyes and she brushed it back with trembling fingers. She could see her father and the other men of Herring rowing back through the foaming chop of the waves; the muscles in their arms straining as they fought for every foot of water gained. In the bottom of their boats lay human cargo: the men they had managed to pluck from between the Hag’s Teeth, and those they had pulled gasping from the water. A lucky few sailors had managed to claw their way through the maze of currents to the shore; they crawled onto the beach wild-eyed and gibbering with shock. Others were washed up on the sand like flotsam; drowned or nearly so. _

_ The younger Flora stood knee deep in frothing shallows and watched the Waking Sea spit out its victims. It was not the first shipwreck she had witnessed from the shore, but it was the first that had presented her with such vast and varied carnage. Her mender’s eye swept over the survivors washed up before her: men whose lungs bloated with seawater; men with splintered ends of bone sticking through the skin: men impaled with shards of their former ship, as though the Ellyn Dynge was enacting posthumous vengeance for her mishandling. _

_ What do I DO, the younger Flora begged in a frenzy of panic; her thoughts scattering like a shoal of startled fish. There’s so many. So many! _

** _You divide them, _ ** _ came the calm instruction. _ ** _Those who are a few breaths from death. Those who are candle-lengths. Those who will see the next dawn. Then attend accordingly. _ **

_ Breaths, candle-lengths, the next dawn. _

_ Moments, hours, a day more of life granted. _

_ With her patients thus divided, she took a deep, steadying breath; anchored her feet to the sand and set to work. _

Her mender’s eye wandered the length of the Chantry, passing over each bedroll in a swift cataloging of injuries. The tile sunk beneath Flora’s feet like sand as she wandered towards the silent, grey-faced man on the furthest pallet; the distant, muffled roar of the waves rang in her ear like the echo of a seashell. She was not diverted by the groans and cries of those she passed, for she had learnt that the louder the cries, the greater time they had left to them. The man at the far end of the Chantry had lost so much blood that his flesh had the spongy paleness of wax. His heart flickered like a candle in a draught; Flora could feel its failing beat like an irregular scratch in her mind. 

Leliana realised that Flora was not going to introduce herself to the priestess; nor provide any explanation for what she was or what she was about to do. The bard could see realisation and then subsequent alarm dawn in the robed woman’s eyes; a smooth, scholarly hand rising as if in protest. The bard interjected swiftly, her pale blue stare fixing the priestess to the spot like a pin impaling a white-winged moth.

“I am Leliana, a lay sister of Lothering’s Chantry,” she said, with the assurance of one occupying a far higher position in the church hierarchy. “I am the companion of this mage, who means you and these poor creatures no harm. The Maker has blessed her with the gift of healing. Let her tend to your wounded without interference.”

The priestess cast a swift, fearful glance over her shoulder to where Flora was kneeling over the man; her head bowed low. Still, she was pinned to the tiles and could not move.

“It is not permitted - _ magic _in the Chantry.” Her mouth twisted in dismay. “It is unheard of. The Templars would not stand for it. Mother Alleria would not - she would not… ”

There was a tremor in her words like a plucked lute string. Leliana narrowed her eyes, casting an arm out to encompass the barricaded doors, the broken windows, the score of wounded sprawled before them, the gore leaking across the tiles. Redcliffe’s Chantry appeared more a recent battlefield than a place of worshipful contemplation. 

“As I understand, your Revered Mother is _ dead,” _Leliana’s voice softened slightly, “for which I am very sorry. But these are not usual times. Your arl is absent. You are under attack, by monsters…?”

If Leliana had been hoping for some clarification on the nature of the strange assailants, she would be disappointed. The priestess flinched as though struck, her fingers clenching into her palms. 

“The mage must be supervised by a Templar,” she said vaguely, then wandered off in the direction of an empty bookshelf. The contents lay strewn and trampled over the flagstones; stray pages lying like fallen leaves. The priestess gazed hard at the shelves as though searching for something, her brow furrowed. 

Leliana looked around her: there were no Templars to be seen; only the tattered remnants of their banner used as a makeshift shroud for the body in the corner. She glanced at Flora to see if any assistance was required - the like of hot water, or bandages - and was startled to see the mage straddling her patient, her bloodied face bent low and fingers clenched hard around the motionless man’s shoulders. From a certain angle, it looked oddly intimate. From another, it looked as though she was eating him alive. 

It was not the sort of mending that Leliana had witnessed before. There was something primal about Flora’s magic that had certainly not been taught by the perfumed scholars at the Circle. She was grateful that the priestess had now retreated into an antechamber. The bard decided that it was best to also leave Flora undisturbed. Spotting a box of tallow stumps and an iron stand beside a nearby pillar, she went to assist in her own way: lighting candles for the souls of the dead. 

Flora, in the meantime, was in her element. She could still hear the waves crashing faintly against the fortress-thick walls of the Chantry; her tongue prickled with the distinctive tang of saltwater. Her memory of the _ Ellyn Dynge _had bled into her reality; the past imposed in faint and ghostly outline over the present. When she drew a shard of edged iron from a belly, it became part of a sheared-off anchor; a broken limb crushed by a falling mast instead of a crushing blow from a weapon. The features of her patients melted like a pencil drawing placed in water, replaced by the white, frozen faces of the half-drowned sailors. In less than a half-candle she had mended eleven of the twelve; their wounds repaired so impeccably that they would lack even a scar as a souvenir. Flora knew well that the potency of her abilities fluctuated depending on circumstance; her magic in a constant ebb and flow. She saw herself as a valve - much like the flap of skin parting the chambers of the heart - through which Compassion issued their healing as required. 

“Get your heathen hands away from me, witch.” 

The shadowy beach melted away; the wind died down and the waves fell back. Flora blinked, thrust abruptly from her reminiscing. The last patient to be mended was glaring at her through a residual grimace of pain. He was a man in his sixth decade; his body made up of hard angles and his face set in a scowl. A Chantry sigil, along with a half-dozen other charms, hung against the papery skin of his throat. 

“Eh,” she replied, utterly confused. “Wha-?”

Her other patients had risen from their bedrolls restored and revived; some accepted a drink of water from Leliana, others went straight to the altar to offer tremulous thanks to the Maker. Not all had acknowledged her healing - it was borne of _ magic, _after all - but no one had been openly hostile.

“I _ said,” _ the man repeated, flushed red from the exertion of speaking. “Get _ away _from me.” 

Flora was confused: had he misunderstood her intention? 

“I’m a healer.” 

“A _ heathen.” _

“The wound on your belly is leaking foulness into your blood,” she said, astonished. “It’s poisoning your guts.”

The wounded man stared at her with a baleful eye, as though she had peeled back his shirt and jabbed at the wound with a finger. 

“Don’t _ touch _me,” he said, taking care to enunciate each word through the pain. “I’d rather be poisoned than suffer your demonic sorcery.” 

“You’ll be dead by dawn,” Flora pointed out bluntly, discomfited. “Please, I can mend it in no time at all. You can close your eyes. Pretend it’s the Maker healing you.”

This was the wrong thing to say: the old man’s nostrils flared and he muttered something that sounded like, _ blasphemy! _His fingers clawed their way up to the holy symbols draped around his neck, then clutched them hard into his palm.

_ What do I say to him? _

** _He has made his wishes known. _ **

_ But he’ll die. _

** _You cannot save everyone. _ **

Flora could not think of the words to articulate her protest and so she returned her attention to her unwilling patient. His face was so creased with suspicion that it resembled a piece of crumpled parchment. 

“Please,” she said, for want of anything else to say. “I can save you.”

“I’d rather die,” he retorted, each word clawing its way from a throat constricted with pain. “Than be saved by a… a _ desire demon.” _

Flora was nonplussed. 

“I ain’t a desire demon,” she replied, the northern vernacular emerging more strongly in her perturbation. “I’m wearing _ clothes.” _

Then Leliana was at her side, setting slender fingers on her shoulder. 

“Come on. You can come back later and see if he’s changed his mind,” she added in an undertone. “I know many like him. His zeal is misguided. Faith should enlighten us, not blind us.”

Flora stood up, reluctantly. She had left bloody palmprints on the flagstones in her wake; her hands and face stained red as though painted with a crimson brush. The loose strands of her hair were clumped together with dried matter. Leliana steered her towards the doorway, past the row of empty bedrolls. The priestess, who had watched each mended patient leave with a suspicious eye, pointedly ignored them both.

When the bard spoke next, there was a note of wonder in her voice. 

“Alistair said that you were a gifted healer, but - but I had _ no idea.” _

“I can’t do nothing else,” Flora mumbled, shooting a resentful stare over her shoulder at the sole remaining patient. “Apart from shield a bit. 

“There was a man whose guts were spilling forth from his stomach! Another whose skull had been broken in two! A woman whose arm hung by a sinew!”

Flora had mended each injury before: the wreckage of a ship could mangle a man with the same brutality as any weapon. Between them Ellyn Dynge and the Hag’s Teeth had chewed up two dozen sailors before spitting them onto the shore. 

“It’s my spirits, not me. Why did he call me a _ desire demon? _RUDE.” 

The bard tutted, nudging Flora towards the door. Her bloody footprints made little difference to the gore-smeared Chantry floor. 

“Oh, don’t sulk about it. Let’s find a bucket and water. You look like a wolf after it’s had it’s dinner.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get a few things across in this chapter! Firstly I wanted to show how Flora’s upbringing in Herring has inadvertently helped to prepare her for the trials she’s undergoing as a Warden. I also wanted to show a little more of Flora’s daydreaming, and how she constantly superimposes memories from her childhood onto the present to help her deal with things. The wreck of the Ellyn Dynge, with its mass casualties, gave her experience in dealing with multiple terrible injuries (and also triage! Deciding who to treat first, which is something paramedics are trained to do today). Secondly, I wanted to show a different side of the inhabitants of Herring. So far, they’ve been portrayed as a pretty unfortunate collection of people: unfriendly, violent towards each other, humourless, joyless.... but they’d also row into a storm to rescue sailors from a run-aground ship. Again, it’s important because these are the people who Flora was raised with.
> 
> Anyway, yet again I’ve spent 387392934 words describing pretty much one scene, lol. Oh well! I hope everyone is staying safe. It’s such a weird time! Looking out of my window (I live in central London) and seeing no one in the street is so strange to me. Wash your hands everyone! And stay home!


	43. The Bann of Rainesfere

After he lost sight of Leliana between the buildings, Alistair cast a final sobering glance towards the pyre. As he turned towards the cart, a sly and tiny voice within him whispered that the assault on the town had at least distracted from his return and delayed their arrival at Redcliffe Castle. The next moment, he felt a stab of guilt between his ribs; ashamed of his own relief.

_ That’s the Theirin in me,  _ he thought, with a bitterness that stung like vinegar.  _ All kings are selfish. Thank the Maker I’m half-commoner.  _

Morrigan and Sten were still waiting beside the cart. Morrigan had retreated in subtle inches away from the crowd beside the pyre. She wore the face of a cat that had been interrupted from its nap by the sudden arrival of a Mabari pup; wary and disdainful. When Alistair reached to take the mule by the reins, she cleared her throat pointedly.

“Once your ‘ _ sister-Warden’  _ has finished her do-gooding, we’ll be off, I take it?”

He glanced at her, winding the reins around his wrist. The air grew heavy around them as the cloud thickened overhead; a wintery drizzle was imminent. This scattered the crowd from the pyre: they broke away in miserable clumps, hunching their shoulders against the damp.

“Off? Off, where? Come on, old fellow.”

The grey-whiskered mule began to trudge after Alistair, the cart creaking in its wake. The tavern, if he remembered correctly, was the thatched two-storey structure perched on the nearby slope; the upper part supported by a forest of wooden struts. Despite its prominent location it seemed to have escaped damage, save for a broken beam on the second floor. An array of window boxes, their contents finished off by winter frost, disgorged wilting tendrils over the stone. Above the door hung a wooden panel with a flaking and faded emblem: a bird perched atop a ship’s lantern.

“Forgive me.” Morrigan’s pointed remark chased him. “I thought that our task was to gather Ferelden’s forces, defeat the Archdemon and end the Blight. I was not aware that we were going to lend assistance to every cause in the nation along the way.”

“The  _ bas-saarebas  _ is right.” The Qunari added his own unamused voice to the witch’s protest. “The Archdemon will not linger while we waste our time.” 

“One night won’t make a difference,” Alistair replied patiently, leading the mule around a pothole. “We’ll help them with…. with whatever’s attacking them. It’s the right thing to do. Then, in the morning, we’ll go and see Arl Eamon.” 

Morrigan let out a snort to illustrate exactly what she thought of the young Warden’s suggestion. 

“And anyway, if we defend his town, he’ll be more inclined to help us,” he added as the tavern grew in size before them. “He’ll owe us a favour.”

The Qunari would have protested longer if he had not realised that such a plan would allow him to assess the fighting capabilities of his new ‘unit’. Out of the four humans, only the sword-bearing male seemed to have any potential on the field. Sten viewed magic as a capricious and inferior substitute for brute strength; also, the dark haired woman did not seem particularly reliable. The religious heathen with the bow and arrow spoke with assurance, but was untested. He had already dismissed their mender as a non-combatant: healers belonged in infirmaries.

The stables were built onto the side of the tavern and were sizable; as one would expect for a prominent trade town such as Redcliffe. There was no boy in attendance, though most of the other stalls were occupied. Alistair, after unfixing their mule from the cart, paused in astonishment at the quality of the grazing horses. 

“These are thoroughbred Fereldan Forders,” he said in wonder, leading the mule towards the far end of the stables. “Purebred. They cost an arm and a leg.”

He admired the muscled haunch of one resting mare; she flicked her tail and ignored him. 

Morrigan looked supremely uninterested. She had entered the stables with reluctance, picking her way across the straw-strewn cobblestones.

“And there’s six of them,” Alistair continued, patting the mule on the neck after tethering it in place. “I wonder who they belong to?” 

“Are you proposing that we steal them then, and sell them for gold?” enquired an acerbic Morrigan. “A sound plan, though a little  _ ruthless _ for the likes of you.” 

“Believe it or not,” he replied, drily. “That’s actually  _ not  _ what I’m proposing.” 

A slap of anxious boot against stone signalled the return of the stable lad; fourteen, solid-built and twitchy as a runaway nun. He grew more nervous still when he caught sight of the Qunari, the warrior and the yellow-eyed witch, the pitchfork slithering from his hands. 

“Sorry,” he stammered, in a voice on the verge of breaking. “I thought perhaps - you were trying to steal the bann’s horses.”

“We aren’t horse thieves,” replied Alistair gently, recognising elements of his younger self in the gangly-limbed youth. Beside him, Morrigan let out an unhelpful cackle. “Wait, they belong to a bann?  _ Which  _ bann?”

He waited with breath hovering on a knife-edge: unsure what he wanted to hear in response. Sure enough, the lad gave the answer that Alistair had been anticipating. 

“Bann Teagan Guerrin, ser knight. He arrived three days ago, after he heard that  _ monsters _ were comin’ from the castle.” 

“I’m not a knight,” Alistair replied automatically, the thoughts in his mind galloping loose. The name had echoed in his ear before it had been shaped in the youth’s throat; it was the name of a man who had been the closest thing to a surrogate uncle that his childhood self could claim. Bann Teagan claimed close kinship to the arl, sported a formidable reputation as a semi-reformed reprobate, and was by all accounts the best horseman east of the Frostbacks. Twenty years ago, to great scandal, the arl’s younger brother had cast off the burden of his family name and gone to ride horses in the Ostwick races. Increasingly licentious stories about his antics in stable, tavern and bedchamber crossed the Waking Sea and were eagerly dissected by Fereldans in all parts of society. Eventually Teagan Guerrin returned from the Marches on the request of his brother, had exchanged his saddle for a bann’s seat south-west of Redcliffe, and had (mostly) reformed his behaviour. There had been a time when every lord in the nation had tilted their unwed daughter towards Rainesfere; but the new bann seemed well-committed to bachelorhood and eventually the stream of petitioners slowed to a trickle, though they never stopped entirely. 

Alistair focused on wrapping the reins around his wrist, feeling the animal pinch of the leather. Teagan Guerrin had been a perennial presence at Redcliffe Castle during his childhood; clattering without announcement into the stables on a sleek new charger, trailing breathless squires and clerks.

_ Where’s young Alistair?  _ the bann used to demand, leaping down from the saddle with the agility of a man a decade younger.  _ I won’t have anyone else looking after my new mare. Isn’t she a beauty?  _

_ Good to see you, lad. Have I shrunk, or have you put on another few inches? Ha! You’ll be picking plums for my brother without a ladder soon.  _

It had once been Teagan’s intention to take Alistair on as a squire. The bann had seen great potential in a boy who had the build and strength of one four years older, and who treated horses with the same respect as any landed peer. Teagan had even begun to train the young Alistair in the use of a sword; bringing him a wooden practice  _ estoc  _ from his own armoury _ .  _ Yet ultimately the bann’s scheme had not come about, and the little boy had found himself banished within the cold and desolate walls of a monastery. Even after it dawned on the young Alistair that Teagan was not coming to collect him; each time that the clatter of approaching hoofbeats drifted over the stone, his heart seized with a masochistic hope. 

“Is… is the bann inside?” Alistair asked, realising that the stable lad was gazing at him with naked trepidation. 

The boy nodded, eyes sliding towards the grey stone face of the tavern wall. 

“Yes, ser. Though I think he’s meetin’ with Mayor Murdock at the moment. Will you… will you be staying?”

Alistair gathered up his thoughts, filling his lungs with a slow and measured draw of air. His sister-warden called this  _ taking an anchoring breath,  _ as though the air - by some obscure alchemical process - had thickened to lead within her body. He thought of Flora in the Chantry, crouched on the flagstones above her wounded, the flawless cast of her face lurid with gold and gore. He hoped that Leliana had managed to placate the protests of any attending priestesses, or (worse) Templars. 

“Right,” he said, checking to make sure that his sword still hung sheathed at his side. “Feed and water for our mule, and tell anyone who looks at our cart that it’s owned by a Qunari. Morrigan?” 

“Hm?” 

It was difficult not to shrink before the witch’s beady eye; somehow, Alistair managed it. 

“Could you- ” he lowered his voice, waiting for the lad to reach the far end of the stables. “Could you fly up to the castle, and… do a bit of surveillance? Have a peek in the windows, that sort of thing?”

“You want me to look for these ‘ _ monsters’,  _ I take it?” 

“Yes,” he replied simply, waiting for either a protest or a flat refusal to be given orders. 

To his surprise the witch begrudgingly inclined her head, lips folding into a slitted line. It was a tacit acknowledgement that his idea was a sound one; Alistair was so astonished that he almost fell into the flank of Teagan Guerrin’s expensive mare. He watched Morrigan leave with Sten striding in her wake, fencepost propped on his shoulder. The Qunari had stated bluntly that, if they  _ were  _ still intending on participating in the town’s defence that night, he would be conducting his own enquiries into the nature of their foe. Alistair was unsure how the inhabitants of Redcliffe would respond to interrogation from a seven foot tall, crimson-eyed Qunari, but tactfully decided to let Sten discover this for himself.

The interior of the Gull and Lantern ignited a faint flickering of memory at the back of Alistair’s mind. In reference to its name, some nautical embellishments had been added to the standard tavern decor: a fishing net hung over one wall, while an amateur’s painting of a bird on a marooned stump resided above the hearth. A staircase rose to an upper balcony that ran the length of the tavern, tucked in the cavity below were several freestanding kegs. Most of the tables stood empty; a morose barmaid stood behind the bar, polishing tankards with a grubby rag. She cheered visibly when she saw Alistair, hastily flicking the grey cloth out of sight. 

“Can I help you?”

Alistair’s hand went reflexively to his pocket, forgetting for a moment that they were destitute travellers who had spent much of their journey eating scavenged food . To his startled and barely suppressed delight, a full coinpurse had been subtly placed there sometime that morning. He was unsure whether to be grateful to Leliana for her bountiful supply of coin, or alarmed by her sleight of hand near his breeches. 

“Could I get some bread and cheese? Enough for five,” he said, hastily removing his hand as her eyes lit up at the clink of coin. 

There came a creak from the floorboards overhead, and the air dried in Alistair’s throat. He wondered if that had been the sound of the bann’s chair shifting; if it would be followed by footsteps and voices growing louder, like men approaching through a tunnel. He unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth, and drew out the coinpurse. 

“And some ale, please.”

He’d be damned if he was going to squeak breathlessly at Teagan like a mouse. He was no longer a boy of ten, he was a man of twice that and a Grey Warden too, although - thanks to Mac Tir - such a title no longer bore accolade, only a regicide’s black cap. 

“D’ you want some company? A bonny young man shouldn’t drink alone.” 

Alistair retrieved his thoughts before they could wander into the dark, thorny thicket of vengeance. When it came to the traitorous general, his mind felt like - as his sister-warden would put it - a box of fish hooks.

“What? Oh,” he said, realising that she was smiling at him. “No, thanks. I’m fine. Do you have any smoked kippers?”

The smile inverted into a scowl. 

“No. I’ll bring your ale over.” 

Irritated she turned away, flicking her cleaning rag with a dismissive huff. Alistair wondered if he should apologise - though he was unsure for what - then turned towards the interior of the tavern. There were a few morning drinkers hundred against their tables, their rigid backs a ward against unwanted company. Several of them had weapons at their sides that still bore remnants of the previous night’s violence. 

He went to a table in the corner, where he would have a good view of both door and stair. A fire chewed through several mossy logs in the hearth; the crack and spit of splitting wood set his teeth on edge. 

_ Calm down,  _ he told himself, sternly.  _ You’re a Grey Warden. You’ve faced down Hurlocks in the field. You’ve faced an ogre - well, been chased up a tower by one.  _

Alistair wished that he had his sister-warden’s dispassionate features: the more nervous Flora became, the stiller her face and the colder her stare. He felt sure that his apprehension was obvious to the other patrons in the tavern, even though he was not quite sure  _ why  _ he was so nervous. It was not his fault that he had been sent away after all, and it had not been his choice to  _ stay _ away for so long. 

_ If Eamon’s Orlesian wife had not-  _

“If the dead weren’t walking each night,” came a wry observation from the top of the stairs. “I’d say that Maric himself had risen from the tomb and come to the Gull and Lantern for a pint. But I’m not sure that such a comment would be appreciated in the current circumstances.” 

Eamon’s younger brother descended to the tavern floor, accompanied by a stocky man in ill-fitting mail. Time had been kinder to the bann than to others in the twilight of their fourth decade: the neatly trimmed hair was still more russet than grey, and the lean figure only just past its prime. The distinctive Guerrin eyes, green as peeled grapes, were sharp and focused, despite resting on bruises of weariness. 

Alistair rose to his feet, taken aback by how pleased he was to see his old -  _ acquaintance? Surrogate uncle? The closest thing to a father he’d had, before Duncan?  _

“And the height proves it,” finished Teagan, taking the last two steps in one and striding towards him. “Welcome back to Redcliffe, Alistair.”

The bann covered the distance between stair and table in a few strides; he had a horseman’s length of leg. He clapped Alistair with easy familiarity on the back, then leaned back and eyed him from head to toe. The grin subsided into a more wondering smile and he shook his head, half-laughing. 

“Maker’s Breath. You’ve turned into the spit of your father. So much for keeping it a secret, eh?”

Alistair made himself smile back, feeling his stomach clench unpleasantly. Fortunately, the bann was preoccupied with matters more immediately pressing than the parentage of the young man before him. 

“Murdock, we’ll run through tonight’s defence plan later.” 

Teagan Guerrin drew up a chair beside Alistair as the mail-clad mayor took his leave. Now they were sat closer, Alistair could see the crease of exhaustion scored across the bann’s brow; the crimson imprint of a sword-hilt within his palm. He looked older than he had done on the stairs; the crisis in his brother’s arling had taken its toll. 

“I heard that you were recruited into the Wardens,” the bann said, accepting his own tankard of ale from the barmaid. “Though you aren’t dressed the part. I thought Wardens wore blue and silver?”

“The Wardens aren’t exactly  _ popular _ in Ferelden at the moment,” replied Alistair, wondering where to begin. “Thanks to Mac Tir. We thought it best to keep a low profile.” 

Teagan took a measured gulp of ale, gathering his thoughts before replacing the tankard on the table. The other patrons had gone very quiet, their heads canting towards the hearth. 

“Yes. I’ve just returned from Denerim,” he said, evenly. “Loghain Mac Tir had a lot to say about Ostagar, and his part in it. I’m not sure how convinced I am by his version of events. He wasn’t amused when I pointed this out, of course.” 

Alistair’s fingers clenched the handle of his own tankard; mellow liquid jolted over the rim. He resisted the urge to grip the bann by the arm and thank him profusely for his scepticism. His eyes felt oddly hot, and he was grateful for the distraction of the barmaid clattering a covered tray of food before him. 

“But,” Teagan continued, after draining the rest of his tankard in several hard gulps. “That’ll have to wait. I take it you’ve heard about our problems here?” 

Alistair gave a tentative nod. 

“Redcliffe is under attack,” he ventured, watching the bann return his tankard to the table with a resigned thud. “By...  _ ‘monsters’?” _

The bann let out a brittle and humourless laugh; it sounded like the skeletal rustle of autumn leaves underfoot.

“It’s a long story. And I still don’t know half of it. Are you prepared to suspend disbelief for a time?”

“Let’s find my sister-warden first,” interjected Alistair swiftly, taking hold of the food tray. “Then at least you’ll only need to tell it once.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first Alistair focused chapter! My Alistair comes across a little more bitter/resentful than the way he does in game, but I always like to change things about characters to suit my ends, hehe. Bann Teagan has arrived!! Hurray! I much prefer him to blah Eamon. Though I wanted to have Flo and Alistair doing their own thing this chapter so Teagan meets Alistair in the tavern instead of the Chantry.


	44. The Mended Men

The fire hissed and spat as though it were in heated debate with itself; smoky heat rolling in waves across the tavern. Alistair took hold of the lunch tray, gratified by the weight of it. The barmaid might not have appreciated his gentle rejection of her company, but she had not slighted him in return. The tray bore several dark loaves of rye, an oblong of butter wrapped in cloth, and a wedge of lemon-yellow cheese. On cue, his stomach let out a growl of anticipation; he coughed a fraction too late to muffle it. 

Teagan Guerrin smiled, and for a moment the burden of defending his brother’s territory seemed to lift. 

“Is your appetite still as ferocious as it was when you were a boy?”

“Even more so,” Alistair replied, draping the cloth back over the tray and checking that his sword was still fixed to his belt. “But this isn’t all for me, believe it or not. There are three others travelling with Flora and I. None of us have had any lunch.”

“And you’re all Grey Wardens?” 

The bann ignored the ensuing ripple of interest that passed through the tavern. 

Mac Tir’s adaptation of the tragedy at Ostagar had spread swiftly; as had news of his bounty on any surviving Warden’s head. Still, Alistair’s height and the formidable bulk of his sword-arm dissuaded any challengers. 

“No, they’re…”

Alistair paused. It sounded like the beginning of a poor attempt at a joke:  _ So, a Witch of the Wild, a lay-sister and a Qunari walk into a tavern.  _

“... they’re not Wardens. Just people who we met on our travels,” he finished, lamely. “Who wanted to help us.” 

_ Or were coerced, in the case of Morrigan. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive her mother for leashing her to our cause. _

Outside the tavern, the sunlight seemed to have drained from the sky as though someone had pulled a plug. The bann cast a baleful eye upwards; the beginning of a scowl pulling at his mouth.

“It had better not start snowing. That would be all we need. You said your companions were in the Chantry?”

The climate within Ferelden’s interior varied from teyrnir to arling; dependent on the lie of the land, proximity to water and the prevailing winds. Much of the Bannorn enjoyed mild and temperate weather, allowing the residents to cultivate its arable land and granting it the nickname of  _ Ferelden’s Garden.  _ Yet the sunken basin that held Lake Calenhad did not share the climate of the land surrounding it; the marriage of steep cliffs and a large body of water meant that it possessed a unique system of weather. It had been known to hail over the Lake when the rest of the Bannorn enjoyed lustrous sun; while gale-force winds tore up the crops in the fields overhead, Calenhad’s waters sat as flat as glass. The residents liked to blame the mages at Kinloch Hold for the capricious climate; they were a useful scapegoat for any of life’s irritants. 

Alistair remembered well the unpredictable nature of the local weather. The bann’s fears were not unfounded: the sky had a sour and sullen cast to it. Despite the lack of visible sun, Redcliffe seemed drowned in shadow; as though Calenhad had burst its banks and sent water up through the streets. The castle overhead no longer seemed a benevolent protector: it loomed with the menace of an avenging warlord. 

They saw few others on their way to the Chantry. The younger villagers passed by with a respectful nod to the bann and a swift, curious glance at Alistair. The older residents, with their venerable memories, paid far more attention to the young Warden. It was not every day that a giant youth with the face of a dead king walked the sloping streets of Redcliffe.

“Most are sleeping,” explained Teagan, touching his elbow with a mouth twist of discomfort. “They’ve been up in arms all night.”

Alistair noticed the bann’s grimace. 

“Are you wounded?” 

“A minor cut. My own fault, let the bastards flank me.” 

The bann dismissed the injury with a grunt as they rounded the corner of a deserted smithy. No smoke drifted from its chimney, no maw of red fire waited within for its offering of iron. The bellows stood breathless in the corner of the yard. 

“Bloody smith’s drunk himself into a stupor,” remarked the bann tersely, pulling his sleeve further down over his arm. “There’s armour and weapons that need mending and he won’t lift a hammer to help. Says that Redcliffe is doomed. I ought to leave him out as bait. I don’t suppose you’ve any experience at the forge? You’ve the brawn for it.”

“No,” Alistair said, regretfully. “There wasn’t a smith at the monastery. The Templars used to send their steel away for repairs.”

“Shame.” A humourless half-smile pulled at Teagan’s mouth as he glanced at Alistair. “I still can’t imagine you at a monastery. You were a mouthy little sod.”

The younger man snorted, though his distracted eye had been caught by a familiar derelict well at the side of the road. A tree sprouted from the ring of ruined stone, its branches stripped by winter. Walking the sloping roads of Redcliffe had revived memories that Alistair had thought lost; like an old painting made vibrant in inches by a restorer’s brush. 

“I know,” he replied, resisting the urge to ask the bann - with deliberate nonchalance - why he had not come to rescue him from the clutches of the Templars. “Flora - my sister-warden - will be able to fix your arm. She’s probably finished with the other wounded by now.” 

As he spoke, the Chantry unfolded before them in its red stone and timber eminence; the sunburst crest thrust upwards on bronze spires. 

“Flora” repeated Teagan, vaguely. He was only half-listening; attention caught by a small cluster of dwarves retreating towards the shore of the lake. “Aye, you mentioned the name. I didn’t think that women could be Wardens. She’s an apothecary? A surgeon?” 

“No,” replied Alistair. “She’s a mage.”

The bann let out an startled laugh as they reached the Chantry’s arched entrance. 

“A  _ mage?  _ Andraste! I hope you’ve not forgotten the basics of your Templar training.”

“She’s not a - not a  _ dangerous  _ mage. She’s…she’s a - ” 

Alistair was unsure how best to describe his sister-warden. He was aware that Duncan would have known exactly how to name her. After all, their late commander had Rivaini blood, and magic ran through the northern deserts like wind between the dunes. In fact Duncan  _ had  _ named her -  _ qaiqal al-kha  _ \- or,  _ spirit healer  _ in the Fereldan tongue. Flora had informed him of this one night in the dormitory tent, her whisper summiting the breastplate that parted them. 

_ Duncan says I’m not limited,  _ she had confided.  _ He says I’m a ‘spirit healer’. They have a lot of them in Rivain.  _

_ Good for you,  _ he had replied, not understanding, more concerned that his makeshift barrier remained in place. 

Alistair was not confident enough to use such arcane terminology in normal conversation. Fortunately, the bann’s attention had just been diverted by the inlaid door swinging outwards, held there by a sinewy, slender arm. It was the limb of an archer; the muscle clinging taut and elastic to the bone. 

“Alistair, we have much to discuss,” said the lay-sister, her fingers restless as though missing the string. “These poor people have been under siege for a  _ week.”  _

“I know,” replied Alistair as Bann Teagan smiled; an instinctive, albeit weary, reaction to a fine-looking woman. “This is Teagan Guerrin, the bann- ”

“ - of Rainesfere,” finished Leliana, bowing her head to the allotted degree with a courtier’s finesse. “The Maker surely approves of you coming to the aid of your brother’s arling.”

The light drained from Teagan’s face at the mention of his brother: ten more years etched themselves across his brow. 

“There’s a lot that needs to be said, my lady,” he said as they followed Leliana into the Chantry, each word leaden. “I only wish that we had days of peace and quiet to do so. Time is short before the assault begins aga- ”

The bann cut himself off abruptly, gazing around the archways of ruddy stone. Sallow sun illuminated empty cloisters and unoccupied bedrolls; a boy scrubbed diligently at the blood caked between the flagstones. Only a lone man remained on his pallet, twisting away from the sudden influx of light and noise. 

“Where are the other wounded?” 

“My sister-warden is a mender,” repeated Alistair, lowering his voice as the cavernous stone bounced his words back at him. “She’s fixed them.”

“But,” the bann objected, staring at Leliana as though she had sprouted a second head. “Tomos had more of his guts outside his belly than within it.”

“She’s a very  _ good _ mender,” said Alistair, a rush of pride heating his belly like dwarven whiskey. “Very talented. It’s what she does.”

The irony did not escape him: he had often kept quiet when the crueller of their Warden brethren had mocked Flora for her limitations. He had not - would never have - joined in with their light-hearted scorn, but neither had he spoken up in her defence.

_ One trick pony, they said. They used to neigh at her when she came into the tent. _

_ They had no idea. It’s not a trick that she can perform, it’s - it’s miraculous. _

Leliana, who had been wondering why the bann was staring at her with such focus, came to a sudden realisation. 

_ “I’m _ not Flora,” she explained, her mouth curling. “She went to wash herself off. She was covered in  _ all sorts.”  _

The bard lowered her voice conspiratorially, casting a glance over her shoulder into the interior of the Chantry. Her words were directed towards Alistair, who leaned in to listen. 

“Our mender is dawdling because she’s in a bad mood,” she confided, amused. “The fellow over there won’t let her near him. Doesn’t want any of her magic.”

Teagan fixed his green Guerrin eye on the groaning man, now alone on the pallets.

“Don’t be such a fool, Hamunde,” he called, the words broken up and returned by the hollowed archways. “Let this mage heal you. We need all the sword-arms we can get tonight.” 

The man muttered something disrespectful that would - in normal times - have him confined to a pillory in the village square. The younger Guerrin ground his teeth, but managed to stamp down on his temper; returning his attention to Alistair. 

“We’ve lost two dozen already,” he said, grimly. “These monsters - creatures - who knows  _ what  _ they are - are relentless. They fight like nothing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve had my share of - ”

Once again, the words died in the bann’s throat; his mouth fixed open in astonishment. He blinked twice in rapid succession, then loosed the air from his lungs in a low, measured exhalation. 

“Maker’s Breath,” Teagan said, an odd tone in the words. 

_ “Two _ baths in one day,” intoned Flora glumly. “It’s unnatural. In Herring you get murdered if you take more than one bath a month.” 

She was clad in her woollen undervest and the shorn-off trousers. Her hair hung in wet and heavy ropes to her waist; the section she had hacked off that morning fully restored. 

“Maker’s Breath,” repeated the bann, astonished. He looked as though his feet had been taken from beneath him by a sudden, sharp current. 

“This is my sister-warden, Flora,” said Alistair drily, accustomed to the stupefying effect that his companion had on those they met. “Flora, this is Bann Teagan Guerrin, Arl Eamon’s brother.”

Flora turned her clear eyes on the astonished bann; the fine, sooty eyelashes stuck together like the fronds of a water plant. 

“I ain’t bathing again ‘til SATINALIA,” she said, ominously. Then, at a silent screech of reproval from her spirits: “Hello. I’m Flora. I don’t have manners.” 

Teagan took her hand with the smoothness of much practice. He lowered his voice to a more intimate timbre, keeping his eyes fixed on her pale irises. 

“I’m very pleased to meet you, mannerless Flora. I wish it were under different circumstances.”

But Flora’s head was already swivelling away; her fingers trapped but her gaze roaming across to the lone man on the pallet. Alistair, who had always harboured a respect bordering on reverence for the bann, suddenly fought the urge to smack his arm. Annoyed at himself, he averted his eyes as Teagan reluctantly released Flora’s palm. 

She blinked, then pulled her fingers back and gazed at them closely; as though inspecting the imprint left by his admiring grasp. He smiled at her, Flora looked back up at him.

“I thought I still had a bit of stomach on my hand,” she said, solemnly. “But it’s alright. I don’t.”

Leliana decided to interject then; cutting smoothly between them. 

“Shall we find somewhere to sit and talk? There is much to discuss.” 

They retired to the late priestess’ office, a large circular chamber connected to the Chantry by a narrow passage. The sun struggled in through high and dusty windows; its light diffused into a muted, underwater bloom. Bookcases were arranged at angles like the spokes of a wheel, their contents spilling onto a red and orange woven rug. A large desk hewn from a single slab of oak stood in the centre of the chamber. It was strewn with the letters and sermons of the dead Chantry Mother; a nearby quill awaited the completion of some unfinished thought.

As they searched for more chairs to encircle the desk, Leliana drew Flora to one side; then darted her finger to a high window. 

“Look!” the bard breathed, awe infusing her words. “A  _ flying fish!”  _

Flora, jaw dropping, craned her neck to see. As she squinted up towards the blurred glass, Leliana’s other hand moved in the span of a heartbeat; her blade slicing in swift parallel to the floor. 

“I’m not letting you butcher your own hair anymore,” she whispered as a startled Flora looked down at the dark red skeins now decorating her boots. “We’re in noble company now. You must look  _ presentable _ .”

“Oh,” Flora replied, mildly disappointed that the flying fish appeared to be a ruse. “Alright.” 

The bard clucked under her breath in a manner more Orlesian than Fereldan; wrestling the rest of Flora’s hair into a bow tied at the nape of her neck. 

“There. No more cutting it yourself.”

Flora put a hand to the back of her head dubiously as she followed Leliana to the central desk, where Teagan and Alistair had managed to scavenge several extra seats. At first, nobody wanted to sit in the ornamental armchair of the dead priestess lest they sit on the lap of a ghost; after a moment of indecision, the bard let out a huff and settled herself on the plush fabric. 

Alistair shifted along the bench to make room for his sister-warden. Flora sat next to him, propping her bare elbows on the desk.

“Flora, where’s your shirt?” he asked in an undertone, watching her bite at the fresh growth of nail. “You’re just in a vest and it’s freezing in here.” 

“My shirt is covered in  _ everything, _ ” she replied through a mouth full of fingers. “I abandoned it. I ain’t cold.” 

In response he touched his thumb to the inside of her wrist, feeling the flesh yield. Sure enough, the skin was smooth and temperate, and even in colour. 

“Huh,” he said, surprised. “You’re right.”

Flora smiled at him, simultaneously biting off the final soft growth of fingernail from her other hand. Alistair kept his thumb against her wrist several moments more, feeling the measured throb of her pulse. By now he knew the resting tempo of his sister-warden’s heart; could beat it out against his knee from memory if requested. His palm settled on the back of her neck when they slept without hesitation, their fingers wound together, faces inches apart on the same pillow. Their growing intimacy within the shadowy closeness of night had never been discussed in sunlit hours; when the two young Wardens were still shy and almost formal in their exchanges with one another. It was an unusual state of affairs, but so were most things in their post-Ostagar world. 

Meanwhile the bann had occupied himself with shifting chairs while he regained some composure. Teagan Guerrin was both perturbed and faintly amused by the lapse in his customary ease. Once he felt reasonably certain that he would not be reduced again to adolescent muteness, he took a seat opposite the two young Wardens; facing them across the dead woman’s desk. 

“Right,” he began, setting aside some unfinished papers and leaning forward. “We’ve six hours until nightfall, and eight until the next attack. The barricades need to be rebuilt and spent arms replaced. There isn’t enough time in the day to do all that needs to be done, nor have we enough men.”

“What about the garrison up at the castle?” asked Alistair, recalling troops of armed men practising manoeuvres in high-walled courtyards. “I know that the knights have been sent to search for Arl Eamon’s cure, but aren’t the other soldiers helping to defend the town?” 

Teagan smiled a bitter and humourless response. 

“Alistair,” he said, resignation weighing down his words. “The attack is coming  _ from  _ the castle.” 

Leliana inhaled a startled breath. Alistair glanced swiftly sideways at Flora, who blinked back at him with an equal measure of confusion. The castle, perched on its thrusting rocky spur, seemed impenetrable: a stalwart icon of Ferelden defence. 

“From the castle,” Alistair repeated, after a moment of digestion.  _ “How _ can that be?”

Teagan shook his head, palms spreading outwards in a gesture of ignorance. 

“I don’t know. I’ve tried to get into the keep during the day, but the gates are locked and the doors barred. No one responds to my shouts. The place is as quiet as a tomb.”

“And what comes out at sunset?” asked Leliana, softly. 

The bann was silent, his fingers tapping out agitated rhythm on an unfinished letter. His face was distant, as though echoes of last night’s battle were flailing around the chamber like banshees; the screams of the wounded disturbing papers on the desk and the guttural groans of the dying tangling around the bookshelves. 

“The townsfolk call them monsters. But last night, I thought recognised one of them,” he said, speaking to no one in particular. “My brother’s seneschal Byram always wore a silver belt buckle in the shape of a bull’s head. Won it off an Antivan in a game of Fool’s Pleasure, years ago, wouldn’t shut up about it. Anyway, one of the creatures came at me from behind the tavern. Got me in the shield-arm. I got him back twice as good, of course.” 

The bann smiled and looked briefly his age; as though the careworn mask had slipped a moment.

“But when it dropped to the ground - for all its strength and rage, it was little more than flesh clinging to the bone - I saw a silver bull’s head slung around its waist.” 

_“_Our Lady preserve us,” murmured Leliana, caressing the symbols at her neck and wrist in swift succession. “The dead are walking. The prophet Nelaros warned of this in the Black Age.” 

“Well, they aren’t walking  _ everywhere,”  _ said Alistair shortly, who had no time for ancient augury. “Just here.” 

Flora, who had hitherto been listening in silence, leaned forward and planted her finger on the desk as though she were crushing a beetle beneath it. In her mind, any discussion about the nature of the assailants was an academic one: at this point it served no practical purpose, and time was of the essence. 

“Tonight, we defend this town,” she said, and almost named it  _ Lothering.  _ “In the morning, we’ll go to the castle and find out what’s going on.” 

_ Do you wish to be confronted with a legion of corpses?  _

“Does the castle have a- ” the question came to Flora unprompted, as though it had been placed onto her tongue, “- a tunnel?”

“Aye,” replied Teagan slowly, his eyes trawling her. “There’s a passage from the west dungeon cut into the rock. Comes out beneath the derelict mill.”

Alistair’s eyebrows rose into his gilded hairline. 

“I didn’t know that Redcliffe Castle had a tunnel,” he said, astonished. “And I lived there for a decade.”

“All castles have tunnels,” replied Flora without thought or hesitation; then felt a strange ripple pass over her mind, as though a vast and unseen creature had swum just beneath the surface. The words had arrived unprompted, washed up on her tongue like flotsam. 

Alistair glanced at Flora from the tail of his eye. He was slowly learning the subtle sea-changes of his sister-warden’s sculpted face, and was almost certain that something had just unsettled her, although he had no idea what it might be. 

Teagan was also looking at Flora, though the cast of his face was different. The residual admiration was now laced with curiosity, a vague puzzlement in the twist of his mouth. 

“Maker, but there’s something familiar about you,” he said, almost to himself. “You’re from the north?”

“Herring,” clarified Flora, distilling the bleak and serrated coastline to the part that mattered. “Do you know it?”

The bann, to nobody’s surprise, had not been there, nor did he know it. 

“Though if they produce women as lovely as you, perhaps I ought to pay them a visit,” he added, unable to help himself even in the midst of crisis. “Are you spoken for, my lady?”

Alistair found himself staring hard at an unfinished letter on the desk before him. It was a request to the Chantry Mother in Denerim for additional funds; Redcliffe’s supplies of ceremonial incense were running low. He gazed at the dead woman’s sloping hand, reading the last word in her unfinished sentence over and over:  _ inadequate.  _

But Flora did not know what ‘spoken for’ meant, and so responded only to the first part of the bann’s statement. 

“Herring produces fish oil by the barrel,” she replied, solemnly. “But they don’t like visitors.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I’m sorry that I always seem to amputate my chapters in non logical places! I just see them getting too long and then I want to put out an update so I just cut them off XD anyway! I really liked this chapter. Flora never shines in any combat/battle chapters because she’s got no offensive ability, she gets no finishing moves, so I love it when her healing magic gets put to good use! She went unappreciated in the Circle because no one ever got seriously injured so there was no need for her to show her abilities, and since she couldn’t even light a candle, they dismissed her as someone of very little talent. 
> 
> I also hope it doesn’t annoy people that I change minor details to fit my own needs! Sometimes for really petty reasons, haha. Like Teagan Guerrin has blue eyes in game but I like the way that “green Guerrin eyes” sounds, and I like describing them as the colour of peeled grapes :P also speaking of Teagan, the decade between origins and inquisition was not kind to him haha 
> 
> Anyway, I loved writing Flora in this chapter. I love that she’s such a little weirdo XD Her eccentricity didn’t come across as strongly in the original, but I think it’s such an important part of her character!


	45. Persuasion

The bann swept aside the priestess’ unfinished letters, exposing a swathe of bare oak. A dribble of candle wax marred the smooth surface; a remnant of many late nights spent answering correspondence. He moved an ink pot and a paperweight until they faced each other across the desk. Overhead, a listless sun sent fingers of light through the high windows; dust motes spiralling in the sallow beams.

“They attack from the south and east simultaneously,” Teagan said, gesturing at his makeshift map. “Most of their forces come across the bridge by the old mill, a smaller number attack the docks.”

The ink well was the mill; the paperweight an improvised dock. Flora felt the dusty finger of memory beckon forth Cailan’s far larger and more sophisticated strategy table, which she had seen twice during her six weeks at Ostagar. The Southron Hills lay supine beneath the king’s scrutinising eye, their contours flattened out in ink on vellum. The map was crowded with tokens and counters; to Flora they seemed to be scattered at random, although there must (surely?) have been some militaristic logic to their placement. A golden crown no larger than a wedding ring had been placed boldly in the centre of the field. The last time that she had seen Cailan alive, he was hunched above the tokens of his men; shunting them relentlessly about the map with a feverish glint in his eye. 

“They follow the same pattern of assault each night?” asked Leliana, leaning forward in the Chantry Mother’s padded chair. “The - attackers?” 

Alistair gazed unblinking at the improvised tokens as though the streets and crooked lanes of Redcliffe were etched into the wood. He had seen Cailan’s map table once; when he and Flora had been brought to the king’s tent and told that they would not be taking part in the final battle. 

“Aye, my lady,” replied Teagan, soberly. “But there’s no tactic to the attack, they just- they just  _ swarm _ . Mindless. I suppose that’s something to be thankful for at least.”

“And you’re sure they’re not Darkspawn?” Alistair asked, his brow creasing. “Darkspawn can be quite…  _ swarm- _ y.”

“I’m certain of it. I’ve seen the occasional Darkspawn over the years, and these are something  _ else.” _

The watery veil of light slid across Flora’s face as she leaned forward, bare elbows resting on the table. One stub-nailed finger came down beside the inkwell as she pinned herself to the field of battle. 

“I’ll go here tonight, then,” she said, pressing her fingertip into the wood.

Teagan looked at the bitten nail, then up at her face. 

“Alistair tells me that you’re a healer.” 

“Yes,” she replied, “but I can shield a bit as well. Nothing else _ . Don’t expect fireballs.” _

Together, they devised a basic plan for Redcliffe’s defence; using the contents of the desk drawers as counters. Alistair and Flora, represented by a bookmark and a thimble respectively, would assist the main defence at the old mill. Teagan would lead the men at the docks against the second prong of attack; if Morrigan and Sten proved biddable, they would be stationed at his side. Leliana would take up position on the tavern roof: within range of the mill, while keeping sight of the situation at the docks. 

“We need all the help we can get. There’ll be no town left if we keep losing men at this rate.” 

Teagan leaned back on his chair with a grimace: it was a penance stool, designed for contemplation, not comfort. Despite the lightness of the bann’s tone, the recurrent battle of the previous weeknights had demanded a heavy toll. He seemed a half-score older than four decades; a man bowed beneath the burden of sudden, grave obligation. 

“You have help,” replied Flora, blunt as a training sword. “It’ll go better tonight. Then in the morning we’ll go to the castle and - and fix what’s wrong.”

She stopped speaking, but Alistair continued her thought process in his own head;  _ then we get Arl Eamon’s support, then we go to the Circle and get the aid of the mages, then we go to Orzammar and get the aid of the dwarves.  _ In Flora’s mind, their defeat at Ostagar was like the dropping of a stone into a pond: it had set in motion a chain of events that were as inevitable as the ensuing ripples. Any obstacle would be surmounted as the incoming tide flowed over rocks. He envied her assurance; he wished that he felt as certain. 

_ Then we defeat the Archdemon,  _ his figurative sister-warden whispered in his ear,  _ and then we end the Blight. And everyone goes home. And I go back to Herring, and live happily ever after. _

As Flora spoke, Teagan watched her; curiosity kindling within the general appreciation. Although the bann had never been to Herring, there was something oddly familiar about the girl sitting opposite him. It was not so much her looks - which were without parallel - but the cadence of her body: the lean of her weight on an elbow, the purposeful cant of her head as she spoke. Her accent was gutter Ferelden but the words were infused with iron. 

“Who are your parents?” he asked suddenly, aware that this had nothing to do with Redcliffe’s defence plan, and yet too curious to curb himself.

Flora did not realise that he was talking to her at first; only registering the angle of his question when Alistair and Leliana remained silent. 

“Eh,” she replied, astonished. “My dad fishes the Waking Sea. My mum makes hooks and sells ‘em.” 

Beside her, Leliana made a small and unassuming sigh, her elegant fingers woven in her lap. It was a subtle enough noise to go unnoticed in Ferelden; in the oblique landscape of the Orlesian court, such a gesture would speak volumes. The bann, who had passed through Val Royeaux in his youth, glanced at her. 

_ Duncan asked me who my parents were too,  _ Flora thought, recalling one of their first proper conversations.  _ I don’t understand why everyone is so interested.  _

Her spirits made no response. Disconcerted, she pressed her fingertip to the thimble that represented herself on the makeshift map, rolling it in a compact circle. It slithered out from beneath her thumb and careened over the edge of the desk. Alistair caught the errant thimble in a swift thrust of palm. 

“What can we do in the meantime?” he asked, returning Flora’s token to its place alongside his own. “To help prepare for tonight’s attack.”

For reasons that he did not fully understand, Alistair wanted to divert the bann’s attention from his oblivious sister-warden. 

“The barricade by the mill needs repairing,” replied Teagan, abandoning the penance stool and rising to his feet. “Owen - the damned smith - needs persuading to fire up his forge, or booting into the lake if he refuses. And there’s a band of mercenaries down by the docks who haven’t lifted a blade in the town’s defence. The dwarf Dwyn won’t even accept my coin, Maker blast him.”

It was decided that Alistair should put his brawn to good use; several sturdy items of tavern furniture required breaking apart before they could bolster the barricade. Flora and Leliana would attempt to cajole the recalcitrant blacksmith and reluctant dwarf to lend their hand to Redcliffe’s defence. They would reconvene before sunset to eat and confirm the final details of their plan. 

As they retraced their steps through the timber-webbed hollow of the main chamber, Flora made a hopeful detour towards the sole wounded man; only to veer off hastily when he began to spout obscenities. Alistair shot a glower at the patient, almost retorting in a similarly colourful manner before remembering their location in a hallowed hall. 

The bann, who had no such reservation, spat back: “Well, hurry up and die then, Hamunde, we’ll be needing that bed later.”

Flora retrieved her coat from where she had stowed it behind a rack of unburnt candles; tugging the loose wool around her arms. Rolling up the sleeves to free her hands, she followed the others out. Emerging from beneath the silent eaves was like surfacing from beneath the water: the air tasted fresh and their words came out clear, with no whispered echo in their wake. Even the sallow sunlight stung the eye after the Chantry’s subdued gloom. 

Alistair distributed the loaves and cheese from the tavern, wrapping the rest for Morrigan and Sten. Flora, her mouth full of bread, came up behind him; brushing his elbow with her own. 

“You’re going to help mend their … wall?” she asked, fascinated by the notion of a barrier constructed from  _ physical _ matter. “Will it keep anything out?”

“I hope so,” he replied drily, watching her pale throat flex as she swallowed. “Good luck with the dwarf.”

Flora grimaced: she had met dwarves for the first time at Ostagar, and had been more than a little intimidated. They seemed to be terrifyingly intelligent; behind their voluminous beards lay a preternatural understanding of engineering, architecture and weaponry. When Duncan had first guided her round Ostagar’s decaying terraces and towers, he had pointed out the dwarven fortifications that bolstered the crumbling stone. Their siege engines stood hunched and skeletal on the ramparts like a flock of long-legged birds. 

“I expect that Sister Leliana will do most of the persuading,” she replied, putting the last bite of bread into her coat pocket. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Brow furrowed, Flora peered up at his face as though scribing the planes and incised angles into the wax of her mind. It had just occurred to both Wardens that they would be separated for much of the afternoon; a prospect that disconcerted each in a subtle and inexplicable way. They had not been parted during the day since before the massacre in the valley below Ostagar. 

Alistair nodded, and for a moment it appeared as if he were going to say something. The words melted on his tongue and he closed his mouth, disguising the severed sentence with a grin. 

“Remember, you’ve got Bann Teagan’s permission to throw the smith in the lake.” 

She smiled, and Alistair heard the bann inhale sharply beside him. 

Eamon’s brother did not let loose his breath until Flora and Leliana had made their way around a wall of stone and vanished from view. 

“Maker’s Breath,” Teagan said in a hushed voice, as though they were boys whispering at the back of a Chantry  _ matins.  _ “If I’d known that women like  _ that  _ wash up on the northern beaches, I’d have visited them sooner.”

“You didn’t ask her to fix your arm,” Alistair pointed out, a touch grumpily. 

“I was too distracted,” replied the bann, rubbing at his elbow with a grimace. “How do you get anything done with that sister-warden of yours around? But my mind is clearer now that she’s gone. Let’s head to the barricade and see what holes we can plug.” 

* * *

The blacksmith’s workshop was closed up like a disapproving mouth: sealed and boarded tight. Flora ventured to the door and knocked on it; after they received no answer, Leliana skirted the building, peering through finger-width cracks. There seemed to be some small light and movement inside, a shuffling and shifting of shadow in response to Flora’s persistent rap. There was a pile of empty bottles outside the door, the bottom layer cracked and splintered. A thin and half-hearted drizzle leaked from above, adding to the situation’s general misery. 

“Why won’t you mend the armour?” 

Flora saw no time for niceties: she was a girl who liked to find the shortest way to a point. When she gained no reply from the door, she put her mouth to the keyhole. 

“WHY WON’T YOU MEND THE ARMOUR?” she repeated at increased volume, pressing her face to the wood. “OR AT LEAST LET PEOPLE USE YOUR WORKSHOP.” 

The desolate forge sat empty, tantalisingly close; a small cascade of wood piled beside an oven that dribbled cold ash. Flora returned upright, picking a strand of damp hair from her eyes. Hamunde’s pained, obstinate face rose unprompted before her, his lips pulled back to show contemptuous teeth. 

_ I’ve had enough of stubborn men,  _ she thought to herself, prodding an ineffectual finger at the keyhole.  _ Today has been full of them.  _

The lay sister seemed to share her sentiment; returning to the front door with a hand sliding into the pocket of her robe. 

“We don’t have time for this. Sunset is six hours away.”

“Less,” added Flora ominously, tilting her face into the rain. “It’s cloudy.”

The lay sister drew out an object that was quite clearly not a religious token: it was a length of steel, bent at strange and precise angles at one end. Leliana glanced over her shoulder - it seemed more out of habit, since no one else was around - and then inserted the elongated prong into the lock. There followed a rattle of metal, followed by a distinct click. 

“Wha,” said Flora in astonishment as the lay sister withdrew the lockpick, sliding it nonchalantly back into her pocket as though it had never left.  _ “Burglarising _ tools!” 

She gaped at Leliana as though a trove of pilfered gold coins and jewellery might come spontaneously spilling from the recesses of her robe. Leliana ignored the wide-eyed stare, pressing a palm to the door and shoving. 

The door opened and they were hit with the sour odour of neglect; though its origin was impossible to discern. It might have come from the plates that bore remnants of mouldering food, or perhaps from the dozen empty bottles lining the dusty shelf above the grate. Most likely, it came from the man sitting in the midst of the chaos: a lack of shaving hid his features and his head hung limp. Based on the gradient of the stains, the clothing he wore had not been changed in a week.

_ “Créateur,”  _ murmured Leliana, flinching as though the odour had physically brushed against her. “What is the meaning of this?”

The man looked up, his eyes cavernous and yet lit with the tiniest flicker of hope. When he saw the two standing at the door; he slumped into gloom once more. 

“Get out.” 

Flora, who was used to terseness, sidled into the workshop. The chaos made her neck itch: she felt an overwhelming urge to clean. 

“You must fire your forge,” demanded Leliana, imperative as any tall hat-sporting Chantry Mother. “There’s armour to be mended. Redcliffe needs you.” 

“I don’t give a shit about Redcliffe,” retorted the blacksmith, his words furred with drink and misery. 

“Why not?” The lay sister prickled with outrage, her eyes sharp as shards of blue glass. 

“No one in Redcliffe lifted a blade to help me. Why should I repair theirs now?” 

Leliana flung out an encompassing hand, her slender fingers very white and clean in comparison to the filth surrounding them. A fly hurled itself against the smeared windowpane, buzzing in mindless alarm as it failed to reach the light. 

“Men have died defending your home,” she said, the tone of her voice sliding into a more mellifluous entreaty. “We saw them on the pyre as we arrived. Those who survived may not be so fortunate tonight, especially if their arms and armour are broken.”

The man made no reply, staring at the old burns that mottled the backs of his hands. The flesh, stretched taut and shiny, betrayed many decades spent at the forge; the fingers more leather than skin. 

Flora, who felt sorry for the fly, nudged the door open a fraction wider to let it escape. A sliver of jaundiced sunlight cut across the room like a streak of greyish-yellow paint; the smith turned his face away with a grunt of irritation. 

“Owen,” she said, recalling his name lodged within the bann’s earlier complaint. “What wouldn’t they help you with?”

He made a gesture as though to wipe his eyes, though his hand never reached his face. The defiance leaked from him and he sat with the hunched stoop of a prisoner. 

“My daughter, Valena. She’s a maid for the lady Isolde, up at the castle. I’ve not seen her in a week and no one will help me look for her.  _ Bastards!” _

Leliana folded her lips, restraining the thought that the other townsfolk most likely had their own relatives at the castle to worry about. Flora brightened up, seeing an obvious solution.

“We’re going to the castle tomorrow,” she said, picking up a crumpled blanket from the ground and folding it over the back of a chair. “We’ll look for your daughter.” 

“No one can get in,” retorted the blacksmith, his face hollow and mutinous. “It’s locked tight.” 

“So was your door until we came,” replied Leliana, graciously. “And we’re taking the tunnel entrance.” 

“The old back passage is clogged with rocks. You won’t get past.” 

The man seemed determined to shred their plan to the bone, to reveal any possible flaw so that he did not have to fall victim to the intoxicating lure of hope. 

“The arl asked me to make enquiries with the dwarves once - see if we could get our hands on some of their  _ matlock  _ powder, blow up the stone - but nothing came of it.” 

Flora, who had spent much of her four years at the Circle assisting the Tranquil with their domestic chores, had collected an array of soiled cutlery into mouldering tankards.

“We can get through,” she said, sorting knives from spoons. “My brother-warden is the strongest person I’ve ever met. We have a Qunari with us too.” 

_ And,  _ she thought, but did not say,  _ if they fail, I’ll just shove us through with my shield. And hope that it doesn’t bring the castle down on our heads. _

The blacksmith looked up at her; curiosity igniting in the wells of his weary eyes. 

“ _ ‘Brother-warden’?  _ Who are you?”

“Flora,” Flora replied, wiping her grubby hands on the hem of her coat. “I’m a Warden. We’ve come to help. Oh.” She remembered suddenly that there was a price on their heads. “Don’t tell Loghain Mac Tir.”

“Is he here?”

“Dunno.” Flora looked over her shoulder, as if the general might have been crouching behind a nearby holly bush. “Probably not.” 

The two redheads left the blacksmith with a promise that they would search for his daughter during tomorrow’s expedition to the castle. Owen did not sound overly optimistic about the prospect of finding her alive - especially considering the horrors that had been surging forth nightly from the castle gates - but a shred of hope was better than none. As the distance grew between themselves and the smith, they heard the sibilant hiss of air forced through bellows as the fire was stoked. 

Flora perked up as they navigated the warren of lanes, the earth and stone dropping away beneath their feet as they descended to the lake shore. She was curious to see how the southernmost tip of Calenhad compared to its northern cousin; which she had peered down upon each day from the slatted windows of the Circle. 

“They’ve built over the water,” she told Leliana; following the bard through a gate that swung loose from its hinges. “Houses on  _ wooden legs.  _ Like pirates. I saw them from the bridge. You couldn’t do that on the Waking Sea: they’d get swept away.”

The lay sister was more focused on the matter at hand.

“Did the bann mention anything about why this dwarven mercenary won’t fight?” 

Flora thought back to the words exchanged in the circular, book-lined study; the bann’s complaints tossed back to him by the vaulted ceiling. Parts of the conversation eluded her; slithering out of reach as she grasped for them.

“Don’t remember.” 

“It’s probably to do with money. I haven’t got the coin to pay for a band of mercenaries.” 

“Nor have I,” said Flora unnecessarily: she had never had money of her own, nor handled it. “Maybe he’ll barter?” 

Exchanging one thing for another was the usual practice in Herring: coin was only useful if one was going to Highever. 

The bard appeared dubious, glancing over her shoulder. 

“But we have little of value to trade. Let’s see what he says first.” 

Once the growing town had crowded as far up the cliff as the builders dared, the townsfolk decided to reclaim space from Calenhad instead. A series of haphazard jetties and wharfs rose from the placid lake; mostly supporting warehouses and storage sheds. A brave few chose to build their dwellings above the silt-blurred waters; the shallows of Calenhad perpetually muddied from the influx of various streams. The dwarf’s house perched on its own elevated wharf: squat and well-secured with nail-studded boards. Smoke drifted from a hidden chimney, blown sideways as it emerged by an easterly wind. 

Flora, distracted by a small boat tethered at a nearby quay, hurried to catch Leliana up. The drizzle had eased, leaving the wood underfoot slick as seaweed. 

The door was shut fast. Leliana reached out and rapped her knuckles imperiously against the wood.

“Open up,” she called, raising her voice so that it would penetrate within. “Redcliffe has need of you!”

There came no reply. Leliana looked over her linen-clad shoulder at Flora, who gave a vague shrug; at a loss for how to proceed. 

“Why don’t you use your robber’s tool again?”

“It’s not a  _ robber’s tool _ .” 

Despite her denial, Leliana withdrew the slender silver instrument from her sleeve once again, reasoning that it worked well enough last time. The metal glinted in the sallow sunlight; sliding easily into the iron maw of the lock. The bard’s wrist twisted, but before any further progress could be made a hoarse-voiced threat slid beneath the door. 

“Break into my house and I’ll shove your pick so far up your nose that you’ll unlock your own brain.”

Leliana’s eyebrows shot into her hairline. As she returned upright, the door swung open to reveal a scowling and squat figure, flanked by two hulking guards. All three were armed with weapons of crude efficiency. The central figure - a dwarf, with a sallow, yellowish complexion and the shadow of ink across his brow - looked the two up and down with an animal sneer.

“When is the bann going to get the message into his thick skull?” he demanded of his two gaping cronies. “I don’t want his coin. And I don’t want the services of his women. Practically bald- ” this was aimed at Leliana, “and scrawny.” 

The latter insult was directed to Flora, who misheard and thought that he had called her  _ prawny.  _ Believing that he had complimented her, she beamed. 

The bard was not, however, smiling. 

_ “Créatuer!  _ Bann Teagan hasn’t sent us as  _ payment.  _ Ugh.” Leliana grimaced and gave a little shudder, as though brushing the suggestion off in disgust. “We’ve come to request your services in the fight against the undead.” 

A contemptuous bark emerged from the dwarf’s throat, prompting obligatory snickers from the men flanking him. 

“You’re a poor excuse for a fool. I’d leave the jokes to others.” 

Flora interjected, a faint crease scored across her brow. 

“She’s not a fool. Why won’t you help? Ain’t it your job to fight?”

“Aye,” Dwyn replied, meeting her stare with a flinty eye. “To  _ fight.  _ Not to get massacred at the hands of - whatever  _ they  _ are. No, I’ve got a week’s worth of supplies here and I ain’t leaving.” 

He cast a meaty hand behind him, to where barrels and crates were stacked towards the ceiling. He was not lying; there was enough food stored up to feed a village. Flora gazed at the stockpile with vague disapproval, but then remembered that they were trying to persuade the dwarf to join them and thus ought not berate him for his selfishness. 

“But you’ve got a much better chance of surviving than the others do,” she said, ignoring the covetous stares of the two hulking figures on either side of the dwarf. “And if everyone gets killed, what will you do then?”

The mercenary let out a nasty laugh, making a mocking gesture with fist to chest.

“Then, Stone help me, I’ll take to the lake. Not particularly keen on the water, but these idiots assure me they can row.” 

Flora could envision the dwarf’s plan: a crowded boat, frantic oars carving through the water, the town of Redcliffe shrinking in their wake as flames and violence devoured the last of the standing structures. It brought to mind Lothering, hunched defiant and defenceless in the path of the Darkspawn horde. Yet again, Flora hoped fervently that the villagers had paid heed to her warnings. 

_ I ran through the refugee camp yelling, you have to go, you have to leave,  _ she thought to herself, feeling a little sick.  _ I told everyone I mended that they had to go. I couldn’t have done anything else. The Templars were chasing me.  _

While Flora fell silent, lost in her brooding; Leliana picked up the torch; injecting a charm so convincing into her words that there seemed to be nothing calculated about them. 

“The people of Redcliffe would be so grateful for your help,” she coaxed, determined to try every angle. “I’m sure that they would be able to come up with a reward for your assistance.” 

The dwarf flung down his anger like a gauntlet, inflating until he seemed to grow several inches. 

“I told you,  _ woman _ ,” he snarled; as the fingers of his guards slid towards their weapons. “I’ll not lift my blade in defence of this nugshit heap. I’ve spent too much time in the ground already, I won’t be put back into it before my time. I’ve got years of the sun on my face and whiskey in my belly ahead of me.” 

“Year,” corrected Flora. 

Leliana glanced sideways at their mender. Flora was blinking, a watery gold aura dissipating through her eye. 

“What?” The dwarf, wrongfooted, made a squinting face.

“A  _ year  _ of the sun on your face,” said Flora, patiently. “Maybe eighteen months, if you lay off whiskey.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Your liver,” she said, bluntly, “is a mouldy turnip. You’ve drunk so much, it’s  _ pickled  _ like a mackerel. It ain’t got much life left in it.” 

Dwyn stared at her, momentarily lost for words. “The fuck?” 

“I’m a mender. Your skin is like glass to me,” Flora replied, solemnly. “When I want it to be.” 

His eyes rolled from side to side like small pebbles in a jar, his mouth opened but no words emerged. Eventually the dwarf forced some scepticism from his throat.

“I don’t need a liver,” he retorted, with false assurance. “It’s never done nothing for me.” 

“A liver,” corrected Flora, recalling a previous anatomy lesson from her spirits. “Is like a little Flora in your belly. It cleanses poison in your blood. It is VERY important. And yours looks like a… a shrivelled old mollusc.” 

The dwarf blinked rapidly and she guessed that he was cataloguing an array of bodily quirks determinedly ignored: an itching of the skin, a swelling of the flesh, a pain in the bowels. Flora’s diagnosis had not come as a surprise in totality. The fleshy stub of his lower lip curled; his fingers clenched into fists. The reminder of mortality stung like a thorn sunk into the soft underside of the foot. 

“Come and find me tomorrow,” Flora said, gazing at the yellowed paunches beneath his eyes. “I’ll mend it for you. I fixed a lot of livers in Herring.”

Dwyn let out a hoarse and incredulous bark.

“Stupid girl,” he said, roughly. “You missed out the part where you only fix me if I agree to fight.”

Flora shot him a mildly appalled look. 

“I don’t  _ bargain _ for my mending,” she replied, sternly. “I don’t ask for anything. I’ll heal you tomorrow, whether you fight or not. We have stuff to do today.”

She turned towards the door, Leliana at her side. Before her boot had claimed a single step, the dwarf called in her wake; a discordant note in his voice. 

“Wait! What if you get killed?”

“Hm!.” 

Flora’s fingers took hold of the iron ring that served as a door handle. As she grasped it, the mercenary leader let out a hybrid snarl of frustration and resignation. 

_ “Barzûl!  _ Fine. We’ll fight. But only because I need my liver fixed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to have Flora persuade Dwyn to fight in a slightly different way from what happens in game - she’s not eloquent enough to talk him into it, but her healer’s eye gives her an advantage! Anyway, this chapter is so long haha but I’m loving the chance to go into so much detail!!


	46. Saying No To Her Face

A blanched sun sunk lower in the sky like an executioner’s blade descending in slow inches; the pall of evening lurking on the western horizon. Castle Redcliffe, no longer the stalwart bastion of Fereldan legend, loomed above its town with menacing authority. It cast a long shadow over the people below, perched like a raven atop its peninsula of bare rock. The bloodless winter light leeched any vibrancy from the world, casting all in varied hues of grey. Even the ruddy cliffs had lost their blushing hue as the light faded from the air. A perennial drizzle had soaked patches of earth into a thick and cloying mud. 

Dread swelled in the streets and lanes of the town as sunset neared. The mayor Murdock made a brave attempt to bolster the mood and strengthen wills; reminding the townsfolk that the blacksmith’s anvil had not been silent since midday, and that the dwarven mercenary and his company had reluctantly joined their defence. The brawny youth with the face of a dead king had helped to repair much of the broken barricade; he had laboured tirelessly for hours with hammer and nails. It had been his idea to sink several spikes into the mud at a vicious angle, he remembered seeing similar lines of defence at Ostagar. The lay sister had set aside her ‘burglarising’ tools and taken it upon herself to offer a more spiritual assurance to the exhausted and grim-faced defenders; distributing tokens etched with the Chantry  _ solarus.  _

Flora had watched several men carry barrels of lamp oil from the shore up to the town square; during the attack, the flammable contents would be ignited as an additional line of defence. Once they had disappeared from view, she spotted one last barrel that had escaped their attention. In awe of Leliana’s sinewy torso - the woman’s body seemed to be chiselled from rock - she decided to work on her own soft, slender physique. 

** _What are you doing? _ **

Her spirits sounded confused in the extreme. Flora gritted her teeth, leaning the weight of her body back against the prone barrel. The wood pressed against her shoulder blades as her boots slid inexorably forward in the mud; she slithered down in inches until she was sitting on the ground.

_ I’m growing my muscles.  _

** _For what purpose? _ **

_ I look like a shrimp! But I wish to be a… brawny lobster. Like Leliana.  _

Her spirits fell into a perplexed silence. A breathless Flora hauled herself out of the mud and turned to inspect her meagre progress. The scrape along the earth measured barely six feet; her exertions had resulted in little actual ground gained. She rubbed her sleeve across her sweaty forehead and blew out her cheeks in contemplation. 

** _Your companion is an archer and a veteran of physical combat. Her build is a consequence of her life. You are a mender. You have no need of muscle. _ **

Flora could not deny this: unlike the rest of her party, she was no fighter. Still, filled with determination to solidify the gentle plane of her belly, she set to shoving the barrel once again. 

“Hnghhh!”

** _You'll give yourself a hernia. _ **

_ I - will - NOT!  _

Suddenly, the barrel rose into the air with effortless levity. For the briefest moment Flora wondered if -  _ finally! -  _ she had added a new skill to the narrow span of her repertoire. 

Unfortunately, as she soon came to realise, she had not spontaneously learnt how to suspend objects in the air. The Qunari stood before her, the barrel supported on his shoulder as though it weighed less than an infant. His face, though mostly impassive, bore traces of incredulity.

“Why are you red?” 

“I ain't,” Flora retorted, despite obvious visual evidence to the contrary. “I’m… normal coloured.” 

He stared at her for a sceptical moment, then turned his attention to the cluster of buildings ahead. 

“This barrel is intended for the defense?”

“Mm. You can take it the... last little bit of the way if you like.”

Sten continued to eyeball her, a coarse  _ hm  _ shaped within his throat. 

They made their way towards the huddled tangle of cottages and workshops; the ungainly mass of the barrel so inconsequential to the Qunari that it made no impact on his pace. Flora found it more difficult: Alistair, who was a foot taller than herself, tempered his stride to match her rhythm. Sten made no allowance: he expected her to keep up. 

As the stone and timber-framed buildings spread out before them, Flora found her eyes drawn to the west. The sun had sunk to the midpoint between its apex and the horizon: dull with anemic pallor, it swaddled itself in a winding cloth of cloud. It was a stark signal that there were only a handful of daylight hours left, and that soon the castle would disgorge its malevolent offspring upon the town once more.

“At first, I believed your decision to defend this insignificant settlement to be folly.” 

“Hm,” said Flora, averting her gaze from the castle. They passed a row of cottages; muffled movement at the windows suggested observation from curious occupants. 

“But I have been consulting the map of this nation. This ‘Redcliffe’ bears strategic importance. If the situation ends up in open war, we will need fortresses such as the one on the rock.” 

He took one vast hand off the barrel, gesturing to the castle that loomed with open menace overhead. The banners lay limp against the stone; while bare flagpoles stood out stark against a bleak wash of sky. 

“Yes,” Flora replied vaguely. “Strategic, mm.”

“And we may spend much of our time on the road. Combat skill must not be allowed to stagnate.”

The Qunari did not add that he planned to assess the combative capability of each member of the party during the night’s assault. 

“You know, the townspeople call this a sea,” said Flora, her head turning as though drawn by a lodestone towards the water. “They call it, ‘Cal’s Sea’. I think they ain’t never seen a real sea. They ought to come up north.”

She let out a heavy sigh; her heart constricting as though someone had reached into her chest and clenched it in their fist. It had been more than four years since she had last set eyes on the grey and tumultuous span of water that gnawed at the northern coast; wild as any beast that lurked within the Par Vollen jungle. The Waking Sea never sat idle for a moment, it was caught in a constant, agitated motion; a web of interwoven currents seethed beneath the tussling waves. 

Sten ignored a tangent of such irrelevance: the barrel’s destination lay just ahead. 

Considerable progress had been made on the barricade since their arrival that morning. It ran the breadth of the road, the height of two grown men stacked one atop the other. Every building in town must have contributed towards materials: a Chantry pew reclined beneath a tangle of barstools and bedframes. Nearby, the other barrels of lamp oil were stacked in a precarious pyramid. 

A few men were still stationed at their makeshift barrier; reinforcing, nailing and hammering more strength into the haphazard wooden structure. One of these was Alistair, elevated on several crates and nailing boards over a gap that would be far from the reach of most men. He had a mouthful of metal staples and a hammer at the end of his right arm; there was little elegance in his technique but brute force served well enough. 

The afternoon drizzle had turned the earth into a cloying ruddy mud. It clung to their boots in clumps and left slick red smears over the cobbles, as though the battle had already been fought. Flora wandered over to the foot of the barricade and peered up at it, fascinated by tbe cumbersome marriage of pew and barstool. She had not been able to inspect Lothering’s boundary fence at close quarters due to the patrolling Templars. This seemed of sturdier stock; despite the haste of its construction. 

“Flora.” Alistair had removed the nails from his teeth and was grinning downwards. “There’s smoke coming from the forge and heavily armed dwarves wandering around. You’ve had a successful afternoon?”

Flora beamed up at him, absurdly pleased to see her brother-warden again after their hours of separation.

“Mm,” she confirmed, placing a hand against the flank of the pew and giving it an experimental nudge. “This looks strong. They both agreed to help.  _ Eventually.”  _

“Well,” Alistair replied lightly, his eyes darting swiftly over her before returning to his palmful of nails. “Who could say  _ no _ to that face?”

Flora, now leaning her body weight against the barricade to further test its strength, frowned. 

“Actually, a lot of people have said no to me today,” she corrected glumly, her mind still lingering within vaulted halls. “And one of them don’t seem to be changing his mind.” 

“That fool in the Chantry?”

The corners of Flora’s mouth turned down: a silent confirmation. 

Alistair let the rest of the nails slither from his palm onto a level section of wood, then clambered to the ground. Such was the length of his body and the broadness of his shoulder that it seemed as though a section of the barricade had detached itself. He peered down at his sister-warden’s face; chiselling away at the cool marble exterior until he had exposed the confusion below. As time passed he was learning how to unmask her by slow inches. 

“Flora,” he said quietly, sensing a ripple of curiosity from those nearby. “Flo, you can’t save everyone.” 

** _As we told you earlier. _ **

“He would rather  _ die _ than let me help him,” Flora continued; the indignant words undercut with emotion of a rawer sort. “He doesn’t even want me  _ near _ him.”

“He’s an idiot.” 

Alistair reached down to fasten the top button of Flora’s coat, closing the folds of wool beneath her neck. It was an impulsive act: his hand had stretched out of its own accord towards the exposed hollow of skin. 

“Mm.” Flora looked up at him, the corners of her mouth quirking upwards. “I might see if he’s changed his mind.”

There was a span of time in which nothing happened. He realised with a capsizing lurch of alarm that his fingers still gripped the wool of her collar, warmed by the residual heat from her throat. Flora didn’t seem to mind being caught in his grip; she was still smiling up at him, a touch curiously. 

Alistair let her go abruptly and she shuffled backwards, mud clinging to her boots.

“I’ll see you in a bit,” she said, reverting to the usual distinctive solemnity. “In a bit of time.” 

“Yes,” he found himself replying, suddenly short of air. “See you.” 

He watched her as she shuffled towards the Chantry: the slender figure dwarfed by the man’s coat and the trousers clumsily shorn at the knee. The only clothing that seemed to fit her properly were her boots, which he reasoned were the most important of all. Her hair, bound with Leliana’s ribbon, fell down her back in a maroon stream; the same purplish red as vein-blood. 

* * *

_ “I said,”  _ the protest came out weaker, but no less vehement for the man’s failing strength, “I don’t want your help. I’d rather die than have your foul magic in me.” 

Flora retreated from the reach of his flailing hand; sitting back on the cold stone of the Chantry floor and wondering how to proceed. The patient - Hamunde - had grown weaker in the time that had passed: each breath rattled like loose grain and his hands had swollen to twice their normal size. 

_ Fat hands means that the twin beans have stopped working.  _

** _Were the years of teaching you anatomy wasted? _ **

_ Sorry: kidneys. They ain’t working, are they?  _

** _No._ **

Flora did not need to use her healer’s sight to scry the effect of such inaction. She could sense the poison spreading through his blood like a stain; until the veins and arteries ran dark with corruption, a malignant cobweb beneath the skin. 

“Let me help you,” she said once again. “Please. Don’t you have a family who want you to live?”

Hamunde swatted ineffectually at her, then turned his head away; exhausted by the effort of rejection. Flora, who was not used to being spurned, did not know what to do. She bit fretfully at her fingernail, tearing at a loose shred of skin until it bled. Her general buzzed with impatience like an angry wasp; though the edges of its irritation were blurred by the soft tide of Compassion’s understanding. 

“Why spend your time on this ingrate? He doesn’t want to be saved.” 

She looked up to see Morrigan: the witch’s presence a dischord within the pious, pillared hush of the Chantry. A scathing eye had already darted over the row of votives, the everburning flame and the crude effigy of Andraste-in-chains near the altar. Still, with remarkable restraint, she managed to bite back her scorn: directing her attention instead to the stubborn figure on the mat. 

“I know,” a morose Flora replied, using her palms to propel herself up. “So he keeps telling me.”

“Then why waste your breath?”

Flora thought for several moments, but the answer was a complex one and she could not coax her tongue around it. Instead, she gave her usual response of  _ dunno,  _ feeling like an imbecile. Fortunately, Morrigan was not in a carrion mood and made no attempt to pick at such an inadequate offering. She swept another feline stare, cool and appraising, around the quiet hall; her brow faintly furrowed. 

“I circuited the castle several times,” she said after a moment, wandering several steps to the stand of burning votives. “There weren’t many windows to spy through. The towers were scored with arrow-slits.” 

The witch licked her thumb and extinguished the sole candle that still burned on the metal shelf, her painted mouth curving.  _ “Fire hazard.”  _

“Arrow slits,” repeated Flora, rolling a low hanging sleeve up over her wrist. “Leliana said that it’s a fortress. I suppose it wouldn’t make sense to have big windows if it gets attacked a lot.” 

Morrigan looked disinterested.

“And the few windows that there were, were blocked off,” she continued, clicking her fingers. The smoking votive ignited once again, the slender flame fluttering in mild panic. “I could see nothing.” 

“Well, thank you anyway,” said Flora, glancing towards the part-open door. The light was draining rapidly now: the sliver of air visible was the murky grey of used bathwater. Such a melancholic sky would host no vibrant sunset: only a colourless descent behind a sheet of cloud and a gradual dimming. There would be no good omens or Maker-sent portent glimpsed in the heavens tonight. 

“We’re going to have dinner at the fire,” she added, turning her eyes away from the colourless sky. “You should eat with us. Important to get a full belly before a fight”

Morrigan’s lips formed the reflexive denial; to the witch’s surprise, she heard herself agreeing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK this chapter is a lot shorter than recent ones! I wanted to balance it out haha. Also this week has just been so crazy, I wanted to publish something just to break up the work! I had a job interview (via zoom!) and I got the job!! So now I’m going back to Wales!!! Working part time, and still in the historical field. So I’m so happy! I cannot WAIT to leave London behind and be back with my family and friends. Plus I can raise my daughter Welsh then hehee! 
> 
> Anyway ooops this note hasn’t been about the chapter at all! Here we see a bit of interaction with Sten and Morrigan, and a moment between Flora and Alistair by the barricade. I also wanted to demonstrate Flora’s medical knowledge - she can’t read or write and has no understanding of history, politics, the arts etc... but she has a good understanding of anatomy and the roles of the organs.


	47. Before The Battle

The light drained slowly from the day. The sallow wash of evening grew murkier with each quarter-candle; clouding over like a painter’s water jar. The drizzle came and went in indecisive bursts, leaving everything in a state of perpetual dampness. Shadow coursed down from Idelson’s Fall, following the passage of its unfortunate namesake. It drowned the town below like an inverted tide; darkness swelled in the gaps between buildings and pooled in the corners of lanes. 

Still, the defenders of Redcliffe had some small measure of hope: their barricade was rebuilt to a new height, their armour and weapons hot from the forge, and the dwarven mercenary had agreed to lend his ax to their cause. They had also gained the aid of skilled strangers: a Qunari; a woman with the voice of a priestess and the arm of an archer; a mage with yellow eyes that gleamed like tourmaline. The young swordsman was seen as a good omen: he had Maric’s height and brawn as well as his face, and the old king was much beloved within Redcliffe. 

With the aid of some lamp oil, several fires were built and meat brought out on spits. The tavernkeeper and his wife, with the help of their boys, rolled down several barrels of ale for the defenders to fortify themselves and warm their bellies. Men and a handful of thick-limbed women clustered around the fires, their arms laid to the sides. Many had needed to improvise their weapons: the inhabitants of Redcliffe were traders and craftsmen, not soldiers. The mason’s hammer served as a maul; the pitchfork as a pike; the tools of the kitchen similarly repurposed. The blacksmith Owen had spent his afternoon putting an edge on anything that could conceivably cut or crush flesh. 

Alistair had found a place to sit that was neither muddy nor a puddle; and still within the hot, smoking aura of the fire. He had not yet donned his armour but it sat close by; the plain and functional steel reflecting the restless flame. His appetite always grew before a battle; he could eat a day’s worth in a single meal, aware that he would need every bite to fuel him against the foe. 

Leliana had taken a seat nearby; having distributed as many holy tokens as possible, she was now applying a final coat of oil to her reinforced jerkin. The leather gleamed liquid in the firelight as she worked it back and forth with capable fingers, testing the flex in the hide. 

“I never eat before combat,” the lay sister said, then hid a smirk behind her fingers, _ “planned _combat, anyway. Of course, many fights are not so predictable.”

“I didn’t realise that Chantry cloisters were so dangerous,” remarked Alistair drily, accepting another link of sausage on his plate. “Remind me to watch my back the next time I go to pray.”

“A good habit for any situation,” came the smooth reply. “Anyway, I find that my mind is sharper and clearer when my body isn’t _ preoccupied _with… digestion.” 

Alistair snorted, distracted by a pair of men sitting a few yards away. They were poorly encased in eclectic plate; their merchants’ bodies not made for armour. Up until now they had been arguing over the sword they seemingly shared between them; then their conversation took a diverse tangent. 

“Look at _ that! _ I could spend a happy hour there.”

This was met with a chortle of disbelief.

“A happy _ hour? _The ale has addled you. A happy three minutes, more like.”

Alistair had a suspicion about the shift in their focus. His hunch was immediately proved right when his sister-warden dropped down inelegantly at his side; the loose folds of her coat bundling around her. The solemnity was laced with an uncharacteristic excitement; she leaned close to him, face alight. 

“I’ve just met a man called _ Cod _,” she breathed, enchanted. “COD! He’s in charge of the lamp oil.” 

“Cod?” he repeated dazedly, distracted by her closeness and the pressure of her small fingers on his arm.

“Yes,” she said, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Well, _ he _ says that he’s called _ Coed, _ but that can’t be right. Why would you name yourself _ Coed, _ when you could be named _ Cod?” _

“It _ is _ Coed,” muttered a man in passing, shooting her a dark stare. “Not sodding Cod.”

Flora waited until he had vanished into the shadow, then mouthed _ IT’S COD _at Alistair with such intensity that he found himself laughing. Such blatant humour was at odds with the oppressive air surrounding them and so he hurriedly stifled himself; biting hastily into a sausage. Flora eyed him meaningfully, taking a piece of bread from a passing platter and crossing her legs beneath her. 

Alistair swallowed his mouthful, letting the winding skeins of surrounding conversation drift over them for a moment. The mayor Murdock was drilling his volunteers for the dozenth time; the mercenary was placing bets on how many kills he would claim. Leliana, with deceptive modesty, had taken him up on his offer; eyes glittering. The lamp oil was soaking within a hastily dug gutter; a pungent, alchemical smell threaded the damp air. 

He returned his attention to his sister-warden. Flora was shredding her bread with her fingers, peering around the far reaches of the firelight. 

“I lost Morrigan,” she said after a moment, breaking off the crust. “She agreed to come and have dinner, but she’s vanished. I think she changed her mind when I started talking about _ Cod _ on the way _ .” _

“Ah, well,” replied Alistair lightly, watching her bite down with small, very white teeth. “I can’t say I’m too disappointed. Anyway, Flora, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Flora swallowed the bread and turned her unblinking gaze on him. The fire lent colour to the glacial palette of her complexion: the skin and eyes painted with a gilded brush, while the dark red hair gleamed like copper poured from a brazier’s bucket. Alistair grasped about for his thought, which seemed to have slithered out of his skull. 

“You haven’t been in many fights,” he said at last, resigning himself to a lack of eloquence. “You didn’t go out much at Ostagar, did you?”

Flora shook her head. Apart from the initial venture into the Wilds, and their flight to Ishal’s roof, she had little experience of battle. At first Duncan had sent her out to accompany the occasional patrol; yet in a short time, her duties beyond the fortress wall dwindled to none. Alistair recognised this well enough since Duncan was similarly wary to risk him on anything more dangerous than retrieving Darkspawn blood. He also knew that the Warden-Commander’s reluctance to send Flora into the Wilds had not been derived from the same cause relevant to himself. 

“Well, it’s… it’s different to when we used to practice on the training dummies. It’s chaotic. It’ll be dark too, which doesn’t help. And noisy.”

Flora listened to her brother-warden with furrowed brow, the bread now untouched in her lap. Alistair continued, his voice carrying low and earnest below the merit of surrounding conversation. 

“It’ll be disorientating. You should find a position that’s away from the bulk of the fighting. Somewhere where you can see what’s going on, but where you won’t be in… in the thick of it.” 

Alistair interspersed his speech with pauses, as though expecting protest or interruption. But Flora remained silent and attentive, listening without comment. When he finished, she waited to see if there would be continuation - then, gave a nod of agreement. 

“I’ll find a barrel to stand on,” she replied, solemnly. “Or, climb up that - that thing.” 

That ‘thing’ was the barricade, the name had temporarily eluded Flora. Alistair swept an appraising glance over her: she did not look ready for battle. She was still clad in her woollen undervest beneath the ugly coat, her staff remained hidden in the cart within the stables. 

“Alistair, giving out combat advice?” remarked the bann easily, lowering himself beside them with a fluidity borne from years in the saddle. “The last time I overheard you giving out instructions it was for breaking into the pantry after hours.” 

Teagan Guerrin was clad in a sheath of mail that gleamed like the scaled flank of a fish; his blade and armour carried by a squire hovering at the edge of the firelight. Alistair returned a brittle smile; he did not need his childhood resurrected in the hour before battle. 

“I don’t sneak into many kitchens these days,” he replied, evenly. “How much longer do we have before the attack begins?”

Teagan darted a glance at the last gasp of sun in the west; barely a breath of light remained above the horizon.

“A candle-length, no more,” he said, returning his gaze to Alistair. “Are you and your friends ready?”

His green Guerrin eyes then slid sideways, as though pulled on a wire. Flora had finished her bread and was now fiddling with her hair, trying to push the errant strands back into Leliana’s bow. Eventually she gave up, yanked out the ribbon and tied up the plum-coloured rope in its usual lopsided knot. It sat atop her head like a sea creature, trailing long fronds down beside her ears. 

“My lady Warden,” said the bann, his gaze lingering. “You seem underdressed for battle.”

Alistair, who had been about to respond, closed his mouth again. Flora blinked; she took a moment to glean his meaning.

“It’s _ Flora,” _she said, assuming that he had used the honorific after forgetting her name. “And I don’t wear armour.”

She then shot an appreciative look at the bann’s chainmail mesh. “Oh, but I might if it made me look like a salmon.”

Teagan laughed and, possessing the assurance of a man with privileged blood, made no attempt to stifle it as Alistair had done. He interpreted her admiration as flirtation; though there was one thing that needed to be established before he could beguile her with the full bright mettle of his charm. 

“By the by,” he remarked, with calculated casualness. “How old are you, Flora?” 

Flora was still looking at the interwoven mesh covering his chest; the firelight slid over it as though it were liquid. 

“I ain’t twelve,” she replied absentmindedly, having never bothered to learn her numbers beyond the dozen paired ribs in a grown human. 

As the bann’s jaw dropped, Flora returned her attention to Alistair, leaning away from the smoke as the wind changed direction. She put the last of her bread on his empty platter, tapping his knee to gain his attention. This was not necessary: his eyes had not strayed from her since she first sat down. 

“Thank you for the advice,” she said solemnly, lifting her finger. “I’ll find a high thing to stand on before the fight begins. I’m going to go and hide these in a safe place.” 

Her hand dipped inside the folds of her coat, drawing out the sheaf of parchment. Alistair recognised the Warden treaties by hue: yellowed with age, kept intact by some long-dead mage’s binding charm. A page of mid-quality vellum stood out from the rest; covered in elegant script with several signatures at the base. Alistair, with a clench in his belly, saw Duncan’s circumspect scrawl alongside the illiterate Flora’s _ X. _

“This must be your Circle discharge,” he said, angling it towards the firelight. “It’d be more useful if the Wardens hadn’t been named traitors. The First Enchanter’s signed it too. _ I authorise the release of the mage Flora O’Ferryn into the custody of the Fereldan Grey Wardens _\- hey, is that your family name? O’Ferryn?”

Flora shook her head, using the discarded ribbon to fasten the treaties in a roll.

“The Templars couldn’t understand the way I spoke,” she replied, alluding to the northern accent that had been far thicker and coarser on her arrival to the Circle. “They asked me my name and I said, _ Flora, of Herring. _And they said it back to me wrong, and they must have written it down wrong too. I ain’t got a family name.” 

She untangled her legs and pushed herself upright, stretching a hand for the Circle discharge. Alistair looked down for a last moment at Duncan’s signature beneath his thumb, then handed it back. Flora added it to her bundle; then wandered off into the mass of shadow in search of a safe location to store them. Her brother-warden watched her go; beside him, Teagan exhaled a low and appreciative breath.

“So, you and her aren’t…?” 

He leaned back and gestured for his squire to bring over a flask. The boy scuttled over, grey-faced at the prospect of another night spent in combat. 

“No,” said Alistair glumly, able to predict the tangent of the bann’s thinking. “No, we’re… we’re friends. She’s my friend.”

Teagan’s incredulity writ itself across his face. 

“But, she’s exquisite. _ Eccentric _, but exquisite. Is it her magic that puts you off?” 

“No,” replied Alistair quickly, startled to realise that it was true: Flora’s magic had not disconcerted him in some time. “She’s… still in mourning over Duncan.”

“Duncan?” Teagan took a long draw from his flask before offering it to the younger man. “The same Duncan who went into the Deep Roads with Maric and my sister decades ago? _ That _Duncan?”

“Yes.”

“The Rivaini with the earring?”

“Yes.”

Teagan raised an eyebrow. Alistair had put little thought into the implications of his comment; it was motivated solely by his desire to prevent the bann from pursuing his sister-warden. He declined the offer of the flask - he did not want to risk dulling the edge of his senses before battle.

Fortunately, Teagan’s attention was diverted by the silhouette of the Qunari; passing behind the fire like a conjuror’s illusion. The vast and silent shadow drew many stares: the townsfolk were unsure how much trust to place in this foreign ally. Each man thought quietly to himself that he wouldn’t mind the Qunari at his side; but would not want the Qunari at his back. Sten had not come to partake in the last remnants of dinner; he was passing through to take up position at the dock.

Once the Par Vollen native had vanished from sight, conversation resumed. Leliana, a demure expression not quite covering a grin, returned from placing her bet with the dwarf. 

“By midnight,” she murmured, hiding her words behind elegant fingers. “We should have enough coin to rest in taverns for the rest of our journey.” 

“If he pays up,” replied Alistair, wishing that his breastplate did not let in the cold fingers of the wind. “Based on what you said earlier, he doesn’t seem a very trustworthy character.” 

The bard let out a silvery laugh; the lapis eyes creasing with amusement. 

“Right,” said Alistair, watching her chuckle with a vague feeling of unsettlement. “Alright, then. You’re feeling confident.”

“I have faith in the Maker,” she said simply, and there was such assurance in her tone that it seemed as though she must have received some divine whisper in her ear. “He would not have us beg on the road for aid. Not when our cause is such a vital one.” 

Alistair raised his eyes towards where the castle perched on Idelson’s Fall, looming above the village like a headsman with axe in hand. There were few windows in the fortress, but the arrow-slit incisions cut in the stone looked like a hundred narrowed eyes. For what must have been the first time in the castle’s storied history, no braziers burned on the battlements, nor watch-fires at the top of its towers. If there were still lanterns hanging on the rocky spur connecting the promontory to the mainland, they held no flame. For a moment, Alistair fancied that he saw a flicker of light high within the keep - a candle twisting in the draught from an arrow-slit - but then it was gone and the castle became a still and silent mausoleum once more. 

Having hidden the Warden treaties beneath a loose tile in the Chantry porch, Flora returned to find the atmosphere quite changed. The remnants of dinner had been cleared away; those lucky enough to own armour had strapped it on. Improvised weapons were clenched in whitening fingers, eyes fixed on the castle overhead. The mayor was talking to a huddle of guards in a low and urgent voice: everyone else stood in silence. The defenders of Redcliffe looked gaunt with exhaustion; this was the tenth consecutive night of resisting assault. 

Apprehension began to sprout prickling tendrils in Flora’s belly as she came closer. She had not realised how different this would be to the last time she had experienced combat in the open: collecting Darkspawn blood in the Wilds before her Joining. This time, there would not even be sallow sunlight to illuminate the field; the outskirts of the town were drowned in shadow. There were also far more than four participants: three dozen forms were clumped together, the light of a weak moon glancing off frightened faces. Flora had already been jostled by an oblivious elbow and someone else had stepped on her toe.

_ My stomach feels like a jellyfish, _ she thought, gloomily. _ I don’t feel ready for this. _

** _Because your commander desired to keep you under his nose rather than send you out on patrol, _ ** came an immediate and acerbic response. ** _You are woefully underprepared. But you must begin somewhere._ **

_ I don’t think I can shield all these at once. _

** _Of course not. Some will die. Remember what we said._ **

_ I can’t save everyone. _

This did not make Flora feel any better. Inhaling the sour scent of sweat and fear from the men crowded around her, she peered above their dense-packed bodies until she spotted a familiar set of broad shoulders. Her brother-warden was easy to identify: he would always be the tallest in a crowd. 

Alistair’s eyes caught hers at the same moment; he gestured her hurriedly towards him. She wove her way through the throng - avoiding the spikes and hooks of bared weapons - until she had reached his side. Eamon’s brother was standing nearby, made distinct by his costly armour and polished blade. 

“Flora.” 

This time Alistair was not beguiled by the sculpted stillness of his sister-warden’s face. He could see the flicker of trepidation within the eyes; brief as the flare of candlelight set high in the castle keep. Unsure what he could say - if anything - to assuage her nervousness, he held her gaze instead; hoping that his unblinking stare came across as reassuring rather than unnerving. 

It worked: the corners of her mouth twisted up a fraction. 

“You see that bit of wood, there? The one sticking out?” 

He pointed at a part of the barricade that protruded outwards at a height of six feet; in a past life, it had been part of a bedstead. 

“I think it’d be a good place for you to stand. I’ll give you a leg up when it’s time.” 

Flora nodded mutely, feeling her nails dig small crescents into her palms. Alistair eyed her for a long moment, then lowered his voice; his words directed to her alone.

“You’ll be fine, Flo.” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to communicate Flora’s initial inexperience more strongly in this version - in the original, being in fights doesn’t seem to bother her at all despite having barely any experience of combat! So, in this version, she’s nervous about being in her first proper ‘battle’ - not counting the flight up Ishal, which was more single combat while running away. Alistair has more experience due to his year spent in the Wardens. 
> 
> I hope everyone is keeping well! The world is so strange at the moment.


	48. The Dead Assault Redcliffe - Part One

Behind the barricade, the defenders had already taken up position; this part at least was well-practised after almost a fortnight of assaults. Almost half of number were stationed at the docks, ready to meet the creatures that hurled themselves from the battlements and clawed their way to shore. The rest stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind the barricade and the trench sodden with lamp-oil. The mayor wandered amongst the men at the barricade, ill-fitting breastplate strapped to his chest and a borrowed sword in his hand. Murdock could claim no familiarity with a blade; he came from a line of sedate and inoffensive traders. Still, with support from the bann, he had done his best to rally together an amateur’s defence. 

In the midst of the huddle behind the ramshackle barrier, two young Wardens stood elbow to elbow; one armoured in mail and leather, the other clad in a shapeless woollen coat. Flora wished that she had not already gnawed her nails down to the quick earlier; biting on them might have distracted her from the writhing nest of nerves in her belly. 

Alistair eyed his sister-warden; not fooled by the stoic coolness of her expression. He had a suspicion that if her face was a true mirror to her feelings, it would be green with nausea. He suddenly felt very sorry for her: Flora had insisted a hundred times that she was a _ mender, _not a fighter, and that she belonged in an infirmary rather than on the field. He, Alistair, had always known that there was a hidden part of himself that savoured the heady rush of battle; the hot, liquid pulse of adrenaline that came surging forth with victory. His sister-warden, in contrast, would have much preferred to keep out of the bloody melee, desiring only to treat its unfortunate victims. Not for the first time, Alistair wondered why Flora’s spirits had granted her a shield of such potency; a gift that seemed an incongruous accompaniment to her healing. 

_ Perhaps it was to keep all the men away, _ he thought wryly to himself, eyeing her sculpted profile in the moonlight. _ Compensation for that unrivalled face. _

“Ready for a leg-up?” he asked softly, the barricade a tangled mess of wood before them. 

Flora gave a glum little nod in response; she had no faith in the steadiness of her voice. Alistair went to hoist her up, then hesitated, something nagging at his memory. He groped for what he had forgotten within his mind; it eluded him until the moonlight slid across Teagan’s Guerrin’s scaled breastplate. 

“How long would it take you to mend Bann Teagan’s arm?” he said in an undertone, recalling the bann’s earlier complaint. “Think you could do it fast?”

Teagan, standing nearby with his shield propped at his boot, glanced over at the mention of his name. 

“Why? What’s wrong with it?” she asked, perking up at the prospect of distraction. 

“Cut, I think.” 

“Oh. Not long, then.” 

Flora looked at the bann and her unblinking Mabari stare drew him towards her like a fish on a line. The few men standing between them hastened out of Teagan’s way; their boots clinging in the damp mud. Teagan came to a halt before her, lowering his shield to the ground once again. It had not been cleaned since last night’s battle, the keep and mound befouled with brownish smears. 

“Merely a flesh wound,” Teagan explained; keeping a wary eye on the castle overhead as he unfastened his gauntlet. “My squire stitched it. Silly lad ought to stick to sewing saddle bags.” 

The removal of the gauntlet and the rolling up of the mail revealed the cut; several inches long and poorly closed with ragged black crosses. The thread trailed loose from the skin, raw flesh the bright pink of a grapefruit gaped beneath slackened stitching.

Flora stared at the wound in appalled fascination; unable to quite believe what she was seeing.

_ Is THIS how people mend their wounds without magic? _

** _In principle. This was poorly done. _ **

_ Sewn up like a hole in a net!! With thread!! Like a SOCK. _

** _Stop gawping and start mending! The enemy will make their move soon. _ **

Flora did not want to think about the impending battle. She bent her head to the startled bann’s arm, clamped the end of the thread between her teeth and pulled. The thread came free with some resistance; to his credit, Teagan gritted his teeth and made no complaint. 

“How much time do we have?” asked Alistair, stepping back on the damp mud as mayor Murdock passed by, muttering encouragement to the huddled men. 

The bann let out a humourless half-laugh, gaze settling on the top of Flora’s head as she bent her face over his arm.

“That’s the one saving grace of this ordeal: they’re _ punctual. _They strike a candlelength after sunset.” 

Alistair glanced to the west: no remnant of the sun remained. An early moon had emerged from behind a wreath of cloud, spilling a sickly, spoiled light into the town below. The stars hung within the cloud, vague and intangible; like pallid ghosts of themselves. Far below the shadow pooling in Redcliffe’s streets had melted away, but the faces of the defenders were now curdled to jaundiced paleness, as though their death masks had already been fixed in place. In contrast, the castle now seemed cast in even darker silhouette, menacing as a predator crouched before the lunge. All eyes were fixed on Idelson’s Fall, and the rough-hewn span of stone that connected it to the mainland.

“It’ll be soon, then,” Alistair said at last, returning his attention to the bann and his sister-warden. “Flora, how long- ”

“I done it.”

“Maker’s Breath!” 

Despite Alistair’s earlier testament and the empty bedrolls in the Chantry, Teagan Guerrin had not quite believed in the potency of Flora’s magic. He had met several mages who claimed to possess the power of healing; some were quacks who fooled their patients with alchemical remedies, others only offered an illusory cure, which lasted long enough for payment to be made and the mage to be well on their way before dissipating. 

Now, in the span of less than a minute, the raw wound on his arm had been sealed so thoroughly that not even the ghost of a cut remained. No scar marred the skin, which was fresh, and pink, and had the itch of new growth.

“Maker’s Breath,” the bann repeated, staring at Flora as she wiped his blood from her mouth with a nonchalant hand. “Your talents are as rare as your beauty.” 

“Tal-_ ent _ ,” she corrected, alarmed at his overestimation of her. “I can’t do _ nothing _ else.”

Her general-spirit gave a huff of irritation. 

“Well, I can shield - a bit,” added Flora hastily. “But I’m not practiced.” 

Alistair felt a warm flood of pride fill his belly; as though he had swallowed a mouthful of dwarven fire-whiskey. The notion that he had once called Flora’s magic _ weird _ to her face now seemed unbelievable. He wished that there was some way that he could go back and slap a palm over his own mouth. 

However, there was no more time for Teagan to admire his neatly sealed wound, not for Alistair to ruminate over past mistakes. A shout of warning rose from the boy perched atop the barricade; his uplifted arm ended in a trembling finger. A cloud with the greenish pallid of graveyard mist had erupted from the gates of the castle; spilling across the rocky promontory. Even from a distance, the collective howl that rose from the ghastly vapour was audible: half-formed cries slid from malformed throats and merged into a terrible cacophony. Strange forms were silhouetted within the murk: some skeletal, others sinuous and broken.

A ripple of fear passed through the defenders at the barricade; one boy barely old enough to shave began to whimper. Flora’s stomach sunk as though it had been lined with lead. At the same time, its contents began to churn in a nauseating maelstrom; she sorely regretted her decision to eat dinner. 

** _Breathe. You’ll be of no use to anyone if you can’t cast._ **

Flora took an overlarge gulp of air, inhaling the sweat and rank fear of the men clustered nearby. She looked sidelong at her brother-warden. If Alistair was nervous, he bore no physical sign of it. The anticipation of battle had cast his face into a predatory stillness; his eyes hard and bronzed by the firelight. Despite Duncan’s efforts to shield him from overly dangerous encounters; Alistair had been drawn into more conflict during his year in the Wardens than most Fereldans saw in a decade. He was no military veteran, but he had a well founded faith in the potency of his sword-arm. 

Flora did not want him to ask her if she was ready a second time, in case she blurted out a panicked denial_ ; _ or - worse - let him hear her chattering teeth. Instead she chose to avoid him and his inevitable question, turning her face to the barricade. There were places she could reach to pull herself up; she did not _ need _him to boost her into position - 

_ “Maker, no!” _

This slid from the mouth of the mayor Murdock. His head was tilted back at an unnatural angle, his eyes desperately scanning the landscape of the castle overhead. A moment later, he let out a groan of disbelief as his fears were confirmed. 

“The horde aren’t splitting! They’re _ all _coming this way!” 

Half of their forces were stationed down by the lake, awaiting the attackers that hurled themselves from the battlements and clawed their way onto the shore. The Qunari and Morrigan were at the docks, as was the dwarven mercenary and his men. 

Teagan Guerrin swore, elbowing his hapless squire aside as the boy’s feet tangled beneath him. Bann and mayor converged in desperate consultation, the defenders milling like panicked _ halla _. 

“We don’t have the numbers to hold them off,” he hissed, eyes bright and glittering behind his helm. “We have only half our forces here. Send for the men down at the lake!” 

“There’s no time,” the mayor replied, the words hanging heavy in the air. “Look.”

The mass of seething vapours had crossed the rocky promontory; reaching the steep path that cut into the cliff. The ruddy, rough-hewn track sloped a quarter-mile down to the town; traversing several small bridges and passing the old mill. There was no natural barrier in the way of the horde: no gate or ditch that could delay their ghastly charge. 

Flora stared at the piece of barricade before her. It was the end of the Chantry pew, nailed at haphazard angle to the mass of wood. There were elaborate letters carved into the oak but she could not read the words they made. Around her, disbelief and shock spread within the defenders like wildfire; their voices tangling in protest at the unfair hand they had been dealt. 

** _Go on. _ **

_ Do I have to? _

** _We do not loan you our gifts so that you can act the coward. Hurry up. _ **

Flora glanced at Alistair from the tail of her eye. He was distracted, staring up at the swarming enemy as they set out on the cliff path. His sword was already in hand, the steel quivering in anticipation of the first strike. Despite the hardships of his childhood and the tension between himself and the arl; Redcliffe was the place that Alistair had named _ home _ for the first decade of his life.

** _Hurry up! _ **snarled her general, its irritation like a buzzing wasp. 

Ducking her head to avoid attention, Flora made her way between the throng. Narrow spaces had been cut into the barricade to allow the passage of arrows and the thrust of pikes; she managed to squash herself through. A jutting splinter snagged the loose wool of her coat; preoccupied with pulling it free, she almost fell into the ditch soaked with lamp oil. 

Eyes watering from the fumes, she turned her eyes to the path ahead. It was swathed in shadow, a slightly darker stripe set against general obscurity. She could hear the sound of the horde approaching in the distance: a limping, lurching mass of feet that moved with unnatural swiftness. Flora hesitated: it seemed wrong to be headed _ towards _the enemy. 

** _RUN! _ **

The order from her general mingled with the calling of her name from somewhere behind; the two syllables sharp with alarm. The realisation that her brother-warden had noticed her absence spurred Flora to move. She clenched her fingers into her palms and hurled herself gracelessly into the shadow; feet finding their rhythm in the darkness. 

The path rose up at a low angle: Flora remembered from their arrival that morning that it was littered with potholes. She hoped fervently that she would not plunge into one and twist her ankle. It seemed like the sort of unfortunate accident that would befall someone like her, rather than someone like Leliana.

As a puffing Flora passed the old mill - her slenderness did not translate to fitness - she began to taste a foul vein in the air. It was a charnel-house scent; it reminded her of a rotted cadaver spat onto the sand after a week gnawed by the waves. 

_ That’s the smell of dead things, _ she thought to herself in a panic. _ But it’s not possible. Dead things don’t move. _

** _HURRY. _ **

The buildings of Redcliffe were now behind her; the bridge that spanned the waterfall ahead. The sibilant rush of water over rock was drowned by the noise of the approaching enemy. A greyish-green vapour surged like a wave towards the bridge from the far side: within the mist, formless silhouettes merged in a tangle of raw, ragged flesh. The quiet was almost worse than the previous feral howling; now, the scrape and rattle of bone was clearly audible. 

As she came to a graceless stop, Flora tasted the sour tang of bile on her tongue, and realised that she had almost been sick with fright. 

_ I wasn’t made for this, _ she thought wildly, lifting her hands before her. _ I wasn’t made to be in situations like this. I’m supposed to be a mender. Why did you have to give me a shie- _

The green cloud erupted at the far end of the bridge, and the smell of the grave was overpowering. 

** _NOW. _ **

A panicking Flora flung out her barrier like a net. The skeins of light billowed outwards, assembling themselves into a hanging trellis before her. The ends wrapped themselves around the railings of the bridge, sealing it off from the approaching horde. Flora exhaled unsteadily, her face inches from the gossamer fibrous strands as they knotted themselves together. Each was no thicker than a single human hair; the barrier had the same diaphanous structure as a soap bubble. 

Moments later, the horde broke against it like a wave on the rocks. She flinched at the impact, her hands flying up in front of her face. 

** _Don’t close your eyes! _ **bemoaned her general. 

For the first time in her life Flora suddenly had empathy for the fish wriggling on the end of the hook; fixed in place and helpless. She opened one eye tentatively, relieved to see that her barrier still hung in place across the bridge. The gold filaments, connected by minute and intricate weave, held firm against a barrage of blows from the other side. Now the enemy was howling in rage that their passage had been thwarted, the baying thin and tattered. 

Flora took a deep breath and opened her other eye, forcing herself to focus on the creatures milling on the far side of her net. 

_ These can’t be worse than Darkspawn, _ she thought to herself, fiercely. _ Darkspawn are monsters. They’re the scariest things in the world. These can’t be worse. _

Then, as she focused on the enemy properly, Flora realised that they _ were _ worse; but not in the way that she had feared. She had thought that _ worse _ meant _ sharper _ teeth, _ fiercer _ claws, _ more _ muscle; but in reality, what was _ worse _was seeing the remnants of humanity caught in their cadaverous remains. A skeleton flailed mindlessly with a cooking pot, the tattered scraps of an apron fluttering around its depleted waist. A corpse with eyeglasses and the blanched flesh of a drowned man hurled himself against her shield so forcefully that she heard the crack of bone. Walking carcasses with the meat hanging off them bore the bloodied arms of Eamon Guerrin. 

The mender in Flora recoiled at such an unnatural desecration of the body. She felt the muddy path lurch beneath her and she stumbled; the horror of the enemy struck her like a physical blow. She tasted her dinner in her mouth and spat it out, coughing at the sudden acidic sting. 

**_Keep your focus!_** lectured her general. **_They are no worse than what you have faced already. _**

_ WHAT HAPPENED TO THEM?! _

** _This is not the time. Hold the barrier._ **

Flora made herself swallow the bile. She did not know whether the dampness on her cheeks was sweat, tears, or the drizzle that had just resumed. The edges of her gleaming net were fraying; she flapped panicked hands at them until they repaired themselves. 

_ Duncan didn’t recruit you as a mender, _ she told herself, trying to ignore the guttural moaning from the other side of her barrier. _ He said: I wanted you the moment you summoned your shield against the maleficar. If Irving had refused me, I would have taken you anyway. _

She conveniently chose _ not _ to remember that Duncan had then kept her within Ostagar, assigning her duties that kept her beneath his eye in the infirmary. 

A husk of eviscerated flesh tried to evade her barrier, clambering along the rail of the bridge. It slipped and fell thirty feet to the rocks below, making a sickening crush as it disappeared from sight. Flora felt fresh sweat break out across her forehead; her heart making a wild assault on her ribs.

_ My insides feel like they’ve rearranged themselves. _

** _You know that’s anatomically impossible. Stop forgetting to breathe. _ **

Flora inhaled unsteadily, blinking water from her eyes and checking the strength of her barrier yet again. It seemed to be holding together, the delicate filaments bowing but not breaking. She decided that she would rather stare at her shield than at the enemy; when she blinked, a golden mesh flashed on the inside of her eyelids. 

Suddenly a new sound cut through the air: a whistle, originating from the darkness behind her. Flora did not dare to look over her shoulder, her eyes still fixed on the net of hanging light before her. 

_ What’s that? _

** _A signal. The reinforcements have arrived. _ **

Flora’s initial relief evaporated in seconds as she realised her predicament. Her magic had a limited range: the greater the distance, the weaker its effect. 

_ How far can I get before my barrier collapses? _

** _Less far than you would have done if you’d accompanied more patrols at Ostagar, _ ** came the acerbic reply ** _. Time to find out._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK I almost sent poor Teagan into battle with a messed up arm! Had to go back and edit in Flora mending it, haha. On reading through though, I actually really like that she gets to heal in this chapter - I wanted to contrast how comfortable/practised she is at mending, with her lack of confidence with the shield. I wanted to show that creating the barrier is her secondary skill and she’s just a bit crap at it at the moment, because of lack of practice! Her inexperience of battle comes across more strongly too - despite this story being 40+ chapters now, Flora had had barely any fighting experience. All she’s had is Darkspawn patrol they fought before her Joining, the single-creature ambushes in the Tower of Ishal, and the bandits before Lothering. So I wanted to communicate how scared she is in her first proper ‘battle’ scenario. I think that portraying her inexperience at this stage will make her character arc more satisfying as the plot progresses, since this is a coming of age story and all :) i love the fact that her general spirit can’t get over the fact she basically sat on her ass for a month at Ostagar haha.


	49. The Assault on Redcliffe - Part Two

Flora began to back slowly away from the barrier, not taking her eyes off the slender golden filaments. Her summoned shield gave off a soft undercurrent of sound; a sibilant hiss as flecks of stray energy dissipated into the damp air. The corpses pressed themselves against the artificial net; their skeletal fingers scrabbling with mindless persistence as they sought to cross the bridge. She fancied that the reanimated dead were staring at her: the hollow eye sockets hosting some arcane prescience that allowed them to focus on the cause of their delay. The drizzle was falling heavier now, the road slithered beneath her boots as earth subsided into mud. 

** _Why are you WALKING BACKWARDS?! _ **screeched her general, incredulous.

_ So I can see when my barrier goes away. _

Flora was sure that the edges of the gleaming net were fading, the fibrous strands a little less bright than they had been moments before. Her heart sunk in her chest: she had retreated a handful of yards and already her barrier was weakening. 

** _Go, now! _ **

Flora turned to face the sprawl of buildings that marked the edge of town. At this distance, the barricade looked like the silhouette of a vast and unwieldy creature reclining across the road. She could see pinpricks of flame moving behind it; where men with torches stood in hastily assembled lines. 

** _RUN! _ **

Flora launched herself forward into the shadow, grateful for the road’s gentle decline. The muddy ground clung to her boots with each meeting; more than once, she felt her foot slide from beneath her as she landed. The air sounded unnaturally loud as it escaped from her lungs in shallow bursts, amplified by adrenaline. 

A few moments later, she glanced over her shoulder to check the brightness of her barrier - and caught the very moment that it vanished; swept away as though by the incoming tide. Flora was so horrified - she had not yet covered thirty yards - that she stopped abruptly, jaw dropping in dismay. A screech of reproval from the back of her mind jolted her from the morass of disbelief: she turned her back to the enemy and fled towards the barricade, abandoning all pretense of bravery. 

_ Why did it break so soon? _ she bemoaned, not daring to check if the skeletal horde had realised their way was now clear. _ I didn’t even get far. It’s not fair. _

** _Battling Darkspawn would have been a more valuable occupation of your time at Ostagar. Instead of batting your eyelashes at your senior officer. _ **

Flora fell into a pothole. The ground came up to meet her so rapidly that she barely had time to thrust her palms out to break the impact. Mud splattered over her face in cold and clinging droplets. For the first time she heard the enemy moving behind her. The sound was chilling: naked bones grinding together, exposed muscle and tendon working to move ossified limbs. The dead were not designed to be in motion, and yet they moved with preternatural speed. 

_ To the whale boats, _ she thought wildly as she ran, recalling the chant that rang out in Herring whenever a spout was sighted in the bay. 

_ To the whale boats, to the whale boats! _

The smell of the grave surrounded Flora like a freshly exhumed crypt. She scrambled to her feet, pushing her wet hair out of her eyes. To her alarm, she felt something tug at the trailing hem of her coat; a guttural snarl wending through the air. Before she could summon her shield, something whistled dangerously close to her ear. There came a solid _ thump _of impact, and an immediate clatter of collapsing bone. 

A heartbeat later, a second arrow followed the first; streaking past Flora like a small bird. 

_ Leliana, _ she realised, the grip on her coat now gone. _ I must be within range of the tavern; she’s on the roof. _

The barricade was now thirty yards away; behind it, the defenders of Redcliffe were girding themselves for battle. A tangle of shouts rose above the drizzle, makeshift weapons thrust aloft in fearful defiance. The torchlight slid over an array of pale and frightened faces, glimpsed in fragments through the gap in the barricade. 

Flora knew without looking that the horde were on her heels: the sound and the odour of the cadaverous charge grew stronger with each passing moment. They were not slowed by the mud, their dead sight unimpeded by the streaming sky. The butcher’s miasma was laced with something else; a thin vein of the familiar. She had smelt the same scent creeping beneath laboratory doors at the Circle: it was the acrid tang of the arcane.

There was no time to think about what this might mean. The barricade was just ahead; she could hear the men yelling behind it, the light from the braziers spilling beneath the wood. A boy - she recognised him as Teagan’s squire - hovered near the oil-soaked trench. A lit torch blazed in one hand; indecision contorting his youth’s face. 

“Light it!” 

But Flora’s entreaty was snatched by a sly wind; one that blew the drizzle and her words back into her face. She raised her voice, flailing her arms in what she hoped was an explanatory manner. 

The boy, horrified at the sight of the dead flooding the road, dropped the torch. The oil-soaked earth lit up like a Satinalia hearth, bluish flame surging the breadth of the ditch. For an instant Flora felt the heat lash her face, then her shield billowed in a ship’s sail around her and she half-fell through the thicket of fire. Eyes streaming from the sting of smoke, she took a blind step forward; her barrier disintegrating. Then a thrust-out hand took hold of her sleeve and hauled her ungently through the gap in the barricade. 

Flora looked up into the dull gleam of a steel breastplate, then tilted her head back further to accommodate Alistair’s height. Her brother-warden knocked his visor back with an impatient fist, eyes focusing on her face. His pupils were dark and hollow pinpricks; the handsome face taut with tension. Beyond the barricade the horde had run into the flames; a sickening smell of roasting meat drifted past on the smoke. The noise they made was indescribable; but fire could not take proper hold of reanimated bone and the delay would be short. The repetitive _ thud _ of Leliana’s arrows embedding themselves in dead flesh was like a heartbeat; the lay sister seemed to have a bottomless quiver. 

“Are you alright?” Alistair demanded, clapping a palm over a stray ember on her sleeve. 

Flora nodded, the drizzle running in beads down her nose. He exhaled a breath that seemed to have been stuck at the back of his throat.

“Maker’s _ Breath _, Flo. You could’ve given me some warning.” 

“Mm,” Flora agreed glumly: she could have, but she had not. 

His gaze ran the length of her once again; assuring himself that she was whole and unhurt. Then, he took her by the waist - or where he estimated her waist to be beneath the loose folds of her coat - and lifted her effortlessly onto the upper part of the barricade. Flora curled her fingers around a jutting pole - part of a tavern chair, nailed unceremoniously to the pew - and peered down at him. 

“Remember,” he called, raising his voice above the snarls of the attackers and the shouts of the men around them. “Look to _ yourself _first. You can’t help anyone if you’re- if you’re - ”

But Alistair could not bring himself to say it, not even in warning. 

“If you’re _ hurt,” _he said instead, peering up at the pale oval of her face. “Don’t risk yourself for anyone.”

She opened her mouth and then there was no more time: the horde had passed through the flame and had begun their assault. The bann planted himself squarely in their path; flanked by his squire and guard. The younger Guerrin lacked the elder’s steadiness and calm governance, but he had always claimed a sharper edge in combat. Alistair knocked his visor back over his face and bared his sword, striding through the throng to Teagan’s side with a yell of _ For the Wardens! _

Moments later, the horde spilled around the barricade - it had delayed them mere moments - and began their attack. The lines of men dissolved into a throng, shadowed figures tussling amidst a cacophony of tangled noise. The dead were armed with an eclectic array of items repurposed as weapons - but their strength was fuelled with arcane fervour, and only decapitation or total dismemberment could stop their assault. The defenders of Redcliffe were marginally better armed; fear and adrenaline fuelling their attempts to waylay the foe. 

The fray that ensued was more confusing than Flora could ever have imagined. Suddenly, the practice that she and Alistair had undertaken on the training field - opposed by other Wardens, defending bags of stationary straw - seemed laughable; a child’s play of how the melee might look. In reality, battle was a knot of noise and bodies colliding; men moved and staggered and lunged in all directions without warning. There was no order to the throng, it shifted with a bloody fluidity; a man fought in single combat with a foe, then he was surrounded, then joined by an ally, then alone again. Likewise, the dead claimed no strategy: they swarmed over the defenders like a mass of grave beetles.

Flora slipped down from her perch on the barricade within seconds: nothing had struck her, but the sudden eruption of combat had startled her so much that she lost her footing. Something collided with her - a man reversing rapidly without care - and she fell back into the mud. 

_ What do I do, _ she beseeched as she struggled to her feet, narrowly avoiding being trodden on. _ How do I help? _

** _Cover your back, _ ** her general instructed, ** _and survey your field. Look to those who are outnumbered and those who have little armour. _ **

_ But, Alistair - _someone barged into her, and she almost fell a second time.

** _Is competent. Look elsewhere. _ **

A mass of battling bodies stood between her and the nearest building; Flora shuffled back until her shoulder blades pressed into the wall of the barricade. Her eyes moved over two men fighting a shambling corpse armed with a rolling pin, and then across to where Alistair and the younger Guerrin were cutting through the dead as though they were competing in a grim tourney; blades scything with a practised ease. Then her eye was drawn to a figure on the floor, a man knocked to the ground clad in garb that was barely adequate for a cold night, let alone combat. He stretched his hands in futile defence as the corpse that had bested him raised a sharp-toothed maul. Inches before the jagged club could cleave through the fragile bone and sinew of the man’s face, it glanced off a gleaming curve of light. Flora’s shield cut the air like a scalpel; thinner than gossamer silk and stronger than any earthly metal. 

_ Ha! Ahaha! _

The man clawed his way upright as his assailant staggered from the force of the rejected blow. A woman armed with a makeshift pike came to his defence, her face bright with fear and hatred. 

** _Fill your lungs and move on. A shield mage ought never have a moment of respite in battle. _ **

Flora inhaled an obedient breath - the barricade rigid at her back - then resumed her survey of the field: searching for those a heartbeat away from oblivion. 

Meanwhile, her companions were proving their worth around her. The Qunari, seven foot tall and armed only with a sharpened fence post, laid waste to the foe with a cold and brutal efficiency. He thrust the improvised weapon as though it were a gift granted by some divine blacksmith; utterly confident in its ability to cause devastation. A trial of broken bones and riven flesh lay in his wake as he stormed through the fray, friend and foe scattering alike. 

Twenty feet above the field, the lay sister abandoned her devout trappings and assumed the mantle of bard once again: her heart beating in time with the constant thrum of her bowstring. Her aim was as unfaltering as a hawk’s pinprick stare; the form of her draw without parallel. The bow seemed an extension of her person; as though the wooden frame had sprouted in a graceful arc from the flesh of her arm. 

In terms of enemies slaughtered, the Qunari would claim the greatest harvest; followed shortly by the lay sister. Their numbers exceeded the count of any other present in battle, including - to his great annoyance - the dwarven mercenary, Dwyn. Yet, once the night’s fighting was done, the name most heard on the lips of the grateful townsfolk was not Sten, nor Leliana, but _ Alistair. _Despite his Marician face and noble bearing, the young man had sought no personal glory in battle; did not seek to increase the notches on his blade by slaying as many of the foe as possible. Instead, he went to the aid of those who needed it; ploughing into the enemy with a brute force born from his blacksmith’s build and taint-infused blood. He used his shield as a secondary weapon; thrusting into the skeletal features of one assailant while the steely length of his sword deflected a blow meant for a fallen ally. When his shield cracked in half, he dropped it and fought with the blade alone.

The young warrior required intervention on one occasion alone: he spotted the bann’s young squire fall screaming to the mud, the bone in his right leg broken like a twig by a hammer-swing. Teagan Guerrin, unaware of the youth’s plight, was hacking away at the other side of the field. Alistair, with a swiftness that belied his size, hurled himself between the boy and the wizened corpse; one steel-clad arm raised to intercept the fatal blow of the war hammer. 

Halfway through its arc, the great block of stone shattered like slate; jagged shards tumbling back towards the wielder. The force of the deflection was enough to tear the decrepit arm from its socket and the limb fell to the ground amongst the shards of its weapon. For the first time, Alistair found himself in close quarters with Flora’s shield; it hung before him with the fragility of a cobweb. At such close distance he could see the delicate structure of the barrier - it was not a solid wall, as it appeared from a distance, but instead had the woven appearance of a fishing net. Yet, unlike its inanimate counterpart, Flora’s shield seemed a living construct: the trellis of strands had an oddly organic appearance, as though the net had been grown from veins and sinewy tendons.

The battle seemed to slow around Maric’s son; men and monsters moving at half-pace. Shadow melted away like a breath in cold air, and a temporary passage cut itself through the muddling chaos of battle: he looked directly through the mass of twisting bodies to where his sister-warden was standing a dozen yards away. Flora had her back to the barricade, her face standing out like a smudge of white paint and her mouth slightly open. One small hand was raised - the palm smeared with mud - and she was gazing at him without blinking. He stared back at her for a single heartbeat, and then the frenzied milieu of battle resumed; bodies surging to fill the space between them. 

** _Good, _ ** murmured Flora’s general, it’s approval like the press of a warm finger against her mind. ** _Better range._ **

But Flora did not have time to bask in this rare moment of praise. As the fray began to thin - the foe overwhelmed by slow, inevitable inches - a shout came from somewhere near the tavern. Hooves sounded a hollow drumbeat against the trodden-down mud; a canter coming to a ragged clatter of a halt.

“We’re overrun at the docks!” a voice rang out, high and panicked. “We need help!”

“Take the shield mage,” ordered the breathless mayor, pointing his sword towards a startled Flora. “We can’t spare any men.”

It did not occur to her that she could dictate her own actions; that she took orders from no one save her commander, who had been dead for three weeks. In her defence she had only spent a few months as a Warden, and several years in obedient deference to Templars and senior mages. She was also disorientated from being in the midst of battle: from the noise, the rank odour of sweat and fear, the shoving and pushing from all sides. 

There was no time to signal to Alistair, but he soon came to realise that the distance between them was steadily increasing. The ebb of the taint in his sister-warden’s blood grew fainter; the gentle thrum of her presence dimming. He looked around to confirm with sight what his mind had already grasped: that she was no longer in the last dregs of the barricade melee. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I wanted to suggest a balance here: on the one hand, Flora is a teenager with hardly any experience of battle, so it stands to reason that she’d be frightened and fumbling. On the other hand, she’s not going to be TERRIFIED because of her shield (even if she’s wielding it like an amateur), and the instructions of her general-spirit. So hopefully that came across! Originally this whole attack was one massive chapter but I decided to break it up. Thank you for reading and I hope everyone is well/staying safe!


	50. The Battle For The Docks

As the melee near the barricade broke apart into small and disorganised knots of fighting, any man no longer facing a foe made haste to the docks. The shore of the lake was often a secondary battlefield; with fewer enemies and subsequently less defence. On this night, however, the assault of the dead had been less predictable. After the first wave of the attack had been launched against the barricade, a substantial number of the dead had begun to claw their way out of the lake. Many had not survived the fall from the castle battlements intact; skeletal warriors were missing limbs, fleshy cadavers split from throat to belly. Most horrifying of all were their forlorn vestiges of humanity: the shredded apron hanging from the bony pelvis, the boots that had been polished by a careful hand. 

Flora found herself on the shore, surrounded by frightened and battle weary men who were drawing from their last reserves of energy. A curious moon had emerged from its diaphanous shroud; lacing the wrinkled surface of the lake with silver. The light was a mixed blessing: on the one hand, it illuminated the field of battle, on the other, it also illuminated the hideous nature of the enemy. 

Some distance away on the stony beach stood the sole figure who appeared to be relishing the fight. Silhouetted against the moonlight, the head of Morrigan’s staff writhed through the air with serpentine grace; where it streaked, bluish-violet flame followed. At least a dozen corpses lay strewn and smoking on the gravel around her. The witch was breathless with glee; it had been some time since she had flexed her arcane muscle and the enemy proved less challenging than the Darkspawn Morrigan had encountered in the Wilds. Flora’s arrival had gone unnoticed; the dark-haired woman was entranced with her own prowess. 

** _Focus! _ **

Flora tore her eyes from Morrigan’s conflagration - in equal parts in awe and envious of the witch’s skill - and flung her shield around a man stumbling nearby, just in time to stop an ax from embedding itself between his shoulders. The rusted weapon made an incongruous _ clang _as it dropped to the bank, as though the barrier was hewn from solid metal. 

** _Too close! _ ** berated Flora’s general. ** _Your inattention almost cost a man his life. _ **

Chastened, Flora scoured the shoreline. The fighting was spread more thinly here than it had been at the barricade: the dead crawled onto the shore and were met with blade or repurposed tool. These men were those who had survived the first week of assaults: they possessed some varied skill in combat. Most seemed to be holding their own against the foe, ruined flesh falling in bloodless swathes beneath their furious defence. The shouts of defiance were slowly turning into those of triumph: more men came running down from the barricade to assist in the last dregs of the night’s defence. 

Then Flora heard a yell drift past on the wind: an exhortation that held a different timbre from the cries of imminent victory that surrounded her. It did not sound triumphant, it sounded terrified; the raw bellow of a man in fear of his life. She spun her head from left to right, eyes sliding over the shuffling figures still locked in combat. None seemed in need of aid - the enemy had dwindled to a ragged few, each surrounded by a knot of envigoured defenders - and then her gaze settled on the far dock. 

A lone man cowered at the end of a disused jetty; silhouetted against the dark and silent lake. He was armed only with a fishing rod, which took ineffectual swipes at the approaching dead. One corpse was clawing its way up from the water, while two more edged towards him over the rotten boards. A finger of moonlight painted his terrified face and Flora recognised him as a man with whom she had had a fleeting conversation about fishing nets earlier that evening. 

_ “Bardon!” _ she shouted, but he was too far to hear her, and she was too far to shield him. The third corpse had almost managed to manoeuvre itself onto the jetty; scrabbling at the wood with fingers of raw bone. “I’m coming,” she said then, though no one could hear her but herself. 

The shore was damp and gravelled; Flora went slithering down it, pebbles cascading in flurries beneath her feet. The old jetty lay to the east, a thrust of decrepit and algae-slick wood that extended almost twenty yards into the lake. The man fought for control of the fishing rod; his makeshift weapon wrenched from his hands by a fleshy construct. He let out a yell of pain as a blow glanced off his arm; the limb hung useless at his side.

The sight of him standing defenceless spurred Flora on. She gulped in mouthfuls of damp air as she ran, aware that she could not channel her shield if she was breathless. Her focus was so entirely on the man and the corpses that cornered him, that she paid no attention to the admonition of her spirits.

** _You’re within range, _ ** her general told her as she reached the edge of the disused dock. ** _You need go no further._ **

By the time that the warning had unfurled in Flora’s mind, she was already several yards up the jetty. The creaking boards had the traction of ice underfoot but she had spent her childhood clambering over the horned, seaweed-slick ridges of the Hag’s Teeth. The corpses lurched to face her, tottering on an unstable axis, and Flora summoned her shield in a panic. Instinct had prompted her headlong scuttle to the dock; the spirits’ disapproval at her recklessness stung like nettleflesh. She had no idea what to do and so she kept going; ploughing forward into the small crowd of dead. Her barrier cut through the enemy like the prow of a ship, knocking them into the water. 

** _Get back to shore!_ **

The fisherman Bardon gaped at Flora as she came to a halt several yards away, winded from her disorderly run. The wood underfoot protested her clumsy arrival with a sigh. 

“Go,” she pleaded, flailing an arm towards the shore as the water churned furiously to either side. 

He stared at her with such incomprehension that Flora wondered if she had miraculously spoken in a foreign tongue. She repeated her request, aware that the dead would soon manage to claw their way back onto the jetty. 

“I’ll keep them back. Go!” 

** _Get off the water! _ **

A lash of rain-laced wind blew her hair in her face and she scrabbled it back with trembling fingers. Calenhad, roused by the turmoil in the air, shuddered against the legs of the jetty; sending curls of cold water over the wood. It was not usual for Flora to ignore the warnings of her spirits, but her mind was as agitated as the lake’s toothed surface. The fisherman lurched past her, clutching his limp arm. Flora heard a snarl from the morass of shadow at the end of the dock and spun around. A malformed shape was crawling towards her, one leg a stump with the shank bone protruding. She could taste her own terror on her tongue, sharp and metal; more potent than the arcane tang of her magic. Her shield, when it finally materialised around her, had the ragged appearance of a net left out in a storm.

** _Get —- shore! _ **shrieked her general, but it’s voice was chipped to pieces by the chisel of her fear. 

Then the world dropped several inches around her as one rotten strut of the jetty subsided; the corroded wood no longer able to bear the weight and rhythm of combat. Flora lost her concentration and her shield in the same instant, the diaphanous veil melting away into the drizzle. A heartbeat later, she felt her coat pulled from her back; clawed fingers snagging in the thick wool. She squirmed away like a worm on the book, tugging her arms free of the wet material as it clung to her. 

As the coat dropped away, so did the jetty. The boards gave way beneath her, the rotten legs finally collapsing into mulch. Flora fell several feet into the coal-black water, tangled with the flailing corpses. The cold struck her like a physical blow; her lungs felt as though they had shrivelled away to slivers of prune skin. Air escaped her mouth in a reflexive gasp; only the rising bubbles indicated the direction of the surface. 

Yet the change in circumstance did not halt the attack: skeletal fingers slid through Flora’s drifting hair in an attempt to gain purchase. Then suddenly her back was burning; the skin aflame in a sharp and shocking pain. Flora realised, with a sour curdling of disbelief on her tongue, that she had been _ hurt. _The water muffled her protest, and she sunk several feet as more air fled her mouth. The moving corpses attempted to claw their way down to her, but their desiccated flesh lacked density. They swarmed in a frenzy overhead, silhouetted against the grey; their guttural howls distorted by the water. 

Without warning there was an eruption of heat and brightness above her, as though the sun had decided to blaze for a single, brilliant moment. Disorientated and dizzy, Flora closed her eyes against the warm rush of water against her face. When she opened them again, there was nothing but silence and stillness above her. The wreckage of her attackers floated on the lake surface, contorted into a charred tangle of limbs. 

Her chest began to ache and bright spots danced before her eyes; although she had been under the surface of the lake for just over a minute, much of her air had escaped. Then a thrust of something organic parted the floating layer of corpses, and Flora found herself face to face with a tangled knot of blackthorn. She grabbed at it, her fingers finding purchase around the wood and was drawn upwards. 

When Flora’s face broke the surface moments, the night air felt like a blessing. She gulped it down until her lungs were full, still clutching the end of the extended staff. Drizzle laced her cheeks and pitted the surface of the lake like orange-skin; charred fragments of flesh and bone floated around her. 

“Well, well,” observed Morrigan, acerbically. “‘Tis a funny time to go for a swim: in the middle of battle.” 

The witch was crouched with nonchalant ease on the splintered remnants of the jetty, her balance unwavering and her expression carefully supercilious. She held the other end of the staff that Flora was clutching; after incinerating the enemy, she had thrust it down into their singed midst. 

“You saved me,” breathed Flora, sinking several inches as she - overcome with emotion - forgot to kick. “You saved my life.”

“Oh, the _ melodrama,” _ retorted Morrigan, but there was a vein of raw relief in the words.“Well, we couldn’t leave the fate of Ferelden to that bumbling behemoth alone now, could we? Now, _ that _would be a recipe for disaster.”

The _ bumbling behemoth _ was a snide reference to Alistair, but Flora had no idea what a _ behemoth _ was. Besides, she was still preoccupied by the fact that Flemeth’s sharp-tongued daughter had _ saved her, _in spite of the barbed derision that the witch had displayed thus far on their journey. 

“Can you get to shore?” Morrigan enquired, reclaiming the length of her staff. “I have no desire to join the… _ commotion.” _

For the first time since she had surfaced, Flora looked beyond the dock. The night’s assault was over; Redcliffe’s defenders were congregating in gleeful knots, voices raised and weapons discarded on the gravel. Two men were hauling the enemy dead into a pile: they would receive no ceremonial pyre, only prompt cremation. The castle overhead had subsided back into a watchful stillness; mercifully quiet once again. 

“Yes,” she breathed, paddling to keep herself afloat. “Yes, I can. Thank you.” 

Morrigan gave a nod and - so fleeting that Flora wondered if it had been a trick of the moonlight - a twist of a smile. Then the witch’s body promptly collapsed in on itself in a huddle of dark hair, fur and leather; the bone hollowing as it shrunk. A raven escaped the melting mass of shadow, wings beating hard against the drizzle as it climbed. Hair streaming over her face, Flora clung to a remnant of the jetty and watched the bird until it vanished from sight. 

Avoiding the clumps of blackened, floating dead - the smell was eerily reminiscent of the roast at dinner - Flora paddled her way towards the shore. Her boots slowed her progress but she made no attempt to remove them, wanting only to get onto dry land and tend to her wound. The flesh between her shoulders throbbed with a dull and meaty ache; nauseated, she wondered if the cut had reached the bone. 

_ How bad is it? _

Her general ignored her with cool deliberateness; retaliation for her headlong charge onto the rotten boardwalk. Flora had been warned three times about her precarious footing and each warning she had disregarded. Compassion hummed in shapeless sympathy; too ancient to remember fragments of any mortal tongue. 

_ Am I split along my whole back? Can you see my backbone? Can you see my innards?! _

There was no response except a vague ripple of scorn from her general. Before Flora could continue her pleading, her attention was wrenched back to the corporeal world by a familiar voice, though one made brittle with fear. 

_ “Flora! FLORA.” _

Flora looked up to see Alistair standing in the shallows, one ungloved, urgent hand thrust through the drizzle towards her. His helm lay discarded on the shore, his breastplate hung lopsided from one remaining spaulder. His dead king’s face ran greyish beneath the smooth olive of his complexion; the pallor in contrast to the bright, dancing agitation in his eyes. Flora was so relieved to see him that she almost fell over, one boot sinking into the mud. Her brother-warden reached out and gripped her arm; in normal circumstance she would have yelped at the force of his grasp. He hauled her urgently onto the shore and, when her legs went from beneath her, followed her down onto the gravel.

“Flora,” he breathed through a throat scraped raw with fear. “Maker’s Breath. I thought - _ I thought that- _

Alistair inhaled a deep draw of air, his eyes clenched shut for a long moment; mouth moving silently. His fingers had not left her bare arms; her coat submerged somewhere in the lake behind them. 

“Are you… are you hurt?” 

The fear had not left him; it ran in a thin vein through each word. He gripped her elbows as though she were still balancing on the remains of the jetty; a heartbeat from plunging into the seething mass of the dead. 

“Yes,” croaked Flora, too frightened to use her mender’s sight on herself in case her back had been flayed open. “I’ve been maimed. Mangled.” 

_ “Maimed?! _Where?”

“My shoulders.”

Alistair swore under his breath, half-lunging around her. At first glance her back seemed covered in snaking rivulets of blood. To his immense relief, he realised that strands of dark red hair had sought freedom from Flora’s lopsided topknot. Pushing them aside, he surveyed the fragments of his sister-warden’s vest, and the curve of her narrow back. 

“Is my spine sticking out?” Flora asked tremulously, craning her head unsuccessfully to see over her shoulder.

Alistair felt relief crashing over him like an incoming tide. “You’ve a few small cuts, but they’re only shallow.”

“Oh.” Flora felt a vague sense of embarrassment. “They ain’t bad?”

“No, sweetheart.”

The relief swept away the last remnants of adrenaline and Alistair rested his forehead against the nape of her neck, exhaling a slow breath. He could feel the throb of her pulse beneath the bare skin. The sounds of celebration from Redcliffe’s defenders faded away as though a blanket had been placed over them; all that he wanted to listen to in that moment was the sturdy beat of Flora’s heart. He had arrived on the dock just in time to watch the pier collapse underneath her, his startled sister-warden dropping into a swarming mass of corpses.

Soon the clammy flesh of her shoulders reminded him that she was soaked through and it was winter, and nighttime; and although he was relatively certain that Flora could cure pneumonia, he did not want her to expend any extra effort. Raising his head, he curled an arm around her shoulders and searched the area for something warm. Nobody seemed to have noticed them; the defenders were too busy rejoicing in the unexpected extent of their victory. The last mangled remains had been hauled into a pile ready for burning; the smell of celebratory ale drifting past. 

“What are you looking for?” Flora asked, shuffling herself within the curve of his elbow until she was facing him. Her nose was running and she rubbed it on the back of her hand. 

“Something dry,” he said, wishing that he were clad in furs instead of chainmail. “I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

“Ooh.”

It was the only ailment that Flora could not cure: a deliberate limitation imposed by her spirits to deter her from hubris. 

Alistair gazed at her face through the drizzle; a rivulet of rain tracing the elegant contour of her cheek. Her eyelashes were stuck together in wet, soot-black clumps; in stark contrast to the light iris they framed. 

“You’ve got water weed in your hair,” he heard himself saying faintly, as though recalling words from a dream interrupted. 

“Oh,” his bedraggled sister-warden replied, cheering up. “Does it look good?” 

Alistair embraced her without warning, so sudden and forceful that she lost her breath. It was only the second time that they had held each other without the excuse of a shared pillow and adjacent bedrolls. She felt his relief exhaled hot against her collarbone, his fingers clenching the tattered remnants of her vest; as though at any moment she might slip back beneath the surface of the lake. Although the embrace had been unexpected - it was more of a lunge - Flora reciprocated eagerly; relishing the touch of the living as opposed to the dead. She turned her forehead into the underside of his chin and he kissed the place where her hair met her face, clumsily but with fervour. 

“I thought you were going to drown,” he said hoarsely into her ear, wishing that he was not still clad in mail. “I thought I had lost you.” 

“If I drown anywhere, it’ll be in the Waking Sea,” Flora replied, casting a resentful look over her shoulder at Lake Calenhad, which she did not hold in high regard after their close encounter. “Not in this….. UNSALTED PUDDLE.” 

A half-laugh escaped Alistair’s throat but he did not let her go, reluctant to relinquish his grasp. The prospect of losing his sister-warden had jarred him to tbe bone, the nausea not yet subsided. 

Flora was happy to stay in the crook of his mail-clad arm - she was relatively certain that the remnants of her vest were going to fall off when he released her. Shifting her feet from beneath her, she noticed that Alistair was missing a glove and a spaulder; and his breastplate hung lopsided, one buckle wrenched free with such violence that it had broken. Her eyes dropped to tbe gravel nearby, where the discarded glove and spaulder had been unceremoniously dropped.

“You were going to come into the lake?” Flora asked in astonishment, her eyes searching his face as she recalled a past conversation. “But, you can’t swim.” 

“I know,” he replied wryly, fingering the dark green weed that dangled near her ear. “I hoped I’d be taller than the water.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s grade Flora on her performance in her first proper pitched battle: a solid C- !! I wanted to show how her shielding ability is still pretty amateur at this point: her range is poor and her fear affects the potency of it. If she gets into a situation where she can’t breathe, she can’t cast at all! She also has a lack of situational awareness in battle, hence the making a stand on a rotten and disused dock - rookie mistake. Luckily Morrigan was there to come to the rescue! 
> 
> Aww and it feels good to reunite our Wardens again! 
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you’re all staying safe and well.


	51. A Toast In His Name

The defenders of Redcliffe released a collective exhalation as it became clear that they had survived another night. Not only had they held out against the assault of the dead, but they had come out the clear victor. Swathes of their foe were piled up and burnt without ceremony; weapons both specialised and improvised were set down. Ill-fitting armour left crimson pinches and blossoming bruises on the skin, but such minor inconveniences were soon forgotten as the bottles were opened. The more devout amongst the villagers pointed upwards to illustrate the Maker’s favour: the clouds had swept apart like opened curtains, revealing a faint cobweb of stars and a benevolent moon. The drizzle had finally yielded to the bare bones of the sky. Those who were less pious murmured that such clarion conditions would have been more beneficial during the battle as opposed to in its wake, but all drank together in harmony regardless. Soon, the celebrations spilled up from the dock towards the tavern; lights were struck in each window and the cellar raided for its remaining kegs. 

On the earthy shore, near where the maze of piers and jetties extended into the sedentary stillness of the lake, Alistair held his sister-warden close. He was still reluctant to release her; each time he closed his eyes, he saw her startled face disappear into a milieu of broken wood and corpses. Flora’s skin had puckered into goosebumps and her hair clung in dripping tendrils to her neck. Yet she made no complaint, fondly recalling many damp and shivering nights spent in Herring. He slid the heel of his uncovered hand along her forearm in an attempt to bring some warmth to her clammy flesh.

“Here he is!” 

The bann’s voice rang strident, cutting through the noise of those still thronging the dock. Teagan Guerrin had thrown back his helm, his armour a blood-splattered testament to a successful night in the field. The bann was a little breathless - he had passed his physical prime a few years prior - but the heat of victory made him seem a decade younger. A pair of his knights followed, exchanging a bottle between them. 

“The man of the night,” Teagan continued, coming to a halt beside Alistair. The visor of his helm had left its ghost on his face: a thin, red line boxing his eyes. “There’ll be a dozen flagons downed in your name before morning, my boy. Is the lass alright?” 

He had just noticed the drowned rat that Alistair was holding in his arms. Flora peered at him through a veil of saturated hair; a puddle of lakewater beneath her. 

“She’s not hurt,” said Alistair, feeling her shift against him as relief flooded his belly yet again. “Just wet. And cold.” 

“I was in the lake,” added Flora, unnecessarily. “Not swimming. I fell in.”

A swift tug of the bann’s fist, and one of his knights was divested of his Rainesfere livery. Flora found herself sporting the russet and olive tabard around her bare shoulders; it would serve to preserve her modesty in the immediate future. 

Once she had been temporarily garbed, and reluctantly released from her brother-warden’s clutches - the image of her slipping below the frothing waters seemed to be imprinted on the inside of his eyelids - the bann strode forwards and clapped Alistair on the shoulder.

“I meant it about the toast, Alistair,” Teagan said roughly, glancing towards the clustered buildings of the town. The revelry, which was cut with an edge of disbelief, was spilling from the tavern back into the streets. “A dozen men and women claim that they were  _ personally _ saved by you tonight. Your shield arm must have been kept busy.”

Ever self-depreciating, Alistair gave a shrug; not quite able to hide a faint glint of relief in the corner of his eye. He had dreaded his return to Redcliffe, but the matter of his parentage had been overshadowed by the more immediate threat.

“I don’t need any toasts in my name,” he said, honestly. “Or at least, I don’t need to hear them. I’m just happy that I was able to help.” 

The young man glanced sideways at Flora, realising that he had unconsciously repeated the adage he had heard so often from her; at Ostagar, at Lothering and in the Redcliffe Chantry earlier that day. He wondered if she had noticed, then caught the slight upwards twist of the full mouth, the swift, glancing dart of her eye towards him.

“Will you come to the Gull and Lantern too, my lady Flora?” the bann asked, with the effortless charm of the perennial bachelor. “I’ll stand you an ale.”

Flora wondered if the bann was making fun of her with his use of the honorific _ .  _ She did not like alcohol: it disintegrated into water and sour yeastiness on her tongue, thanks to her body’s natural detoxification. In addition, although the battle was now over, her work was not done: it was time to put her primary skill to use. 

“Are there any injured?” she asked, peeling a strand of wet hair from her nose. 

“A few walking wounded, but they’re self-medicating with beer at the tavern,” replied the bann, affably. The next moment he grimaced and shook his head, annoyed at the lapse in memory. “Ah, one of my squires - poor lad got his leg split in two. I’d appreciate it if you could do anything for him, he’s got a great deal of promise. He’s up in the Chantry.” 

Flora looked uncertain: she was not able to regrow limbs, at least, she had never tried it before. 

“I’ll do my best,” she said gravely, bringing her hand to her mouth to bite off the fresh nail. 

The bann smiled reflexively at her - such a face invited it even when weary and bedraggled - then shifted his attention. “Alistair, will you come to the tavern? There’s a full tankard waiting for you.” 

“Thanks,” Alistair replied, finally managing to work the last buckle of his breastplate loose. The heavy moulded metal slid free, and he took his first unimpeded breath of the evening. “But I think I’ll stay with Flo.” 

Flora beamed: a rare public smile.

“Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same in your position,” replied the bann, amused. “Let me escort you both to the Chantry. It’s the least I can do.” 

The village hummed with activity despite the lateness of the hour: the debris of battle removed, the last few enemy dead swept into piles ready for unceremonious cremation. Redcliffe’s defenders exchanged stories and beverages as they worked. A diaphanous moonlight flooded the spaces between buildings; throwing a greenish cast on the array of faces. The bann, his knights and the two young Wardens made their way to higher ground; fragments of conversation tangling around them. 

_ … none of us dead. Can you believe…  _

_ … just a few bruises…. thought I was doomed till the big lad came charging in -  _

_ … never seen the like… woman never missed a shot.  _

_ …. could’ve sworn it was Maric himself risen from the deep to save us.  _

Alistair flinched as they passed the knot of excited villagers. The old king’s name felt like the poke of a sharp-nailed finger, irritating and more painful than expected. 

As he contemplated the unwanted physical similarity between himself and his father, Flora ventured a question to her reproving general. 

_ How did I do? In my first proper big battle. _

** _I would count the defence of the Nula Spires against the hordes of Dine as a ‘big battle’. Or the Purge of the Trackless Veldt. Not this local scuffle._ **

_ Eehhh? _

** _If you had not fallen asleep in every Circle history lesson you ever attended, you might know. _ **

_ Tell me how I did!  _

** _MEDIOCRE!! _ **

Flora was on the verge of slipping into a sulk when she noticed the expression on her brother-warden’s face. He was grimacing as though there was a loose object in his boot; as if the townsfolk milling around them were murmuring snide remarks in his direction rather than praise. She had no idea what the cause of Alistair’s frown was but she quickened her pace to match his, letting the back of her hand swing gently against his ungloved fingers.

At the brush of skin Alistair startled and then smiled down at her, the frown softening. Flora stared back up at him unblinking for a breathless instant that seemed to extend like an unwinding scroll. Then, her gaze darted to the side, attention diverted.

“Look, there’s Cod! _ COD!” _

The man, whose name was  _ Coed _ , made a rude gesture. Flora, undeterred, waved at him and he turned his back pointedly on her.

“A mean man with a fish name,” she said, more to herself than those walking with her. “I think he  _ must _ have Herring ancestry in him. I was almost named Salmon, but I came with a name already.” 

Alistair grinned, wishing that he did not always get so distracted by the artistry of her face. “Is Salmon a girl’s name?” 

Flora thought for a moment then offered, vaguely:  _ “Salmonella?”  _

Her brother-warden laughed for the first time in what seemed like an Age. The bann, however, was not laughing. A flicker of curiosity had ignited in his light green eye. Unlike Alistair, he had taken note of Flora’s casual wording:  _ I came with a name.  _ The younger Guerrin brother lacked the sharp edge of Eamon’s political acumen, but he was no fool. He looked at the girl’s sculpted profile, and the embryonic beginnings of a thought took root in his mind. 

But there was no more time for wondering: the noise of disbelief and weary celebration surrounded them as they reached the village square. Nearby, the dwarven mercenary Dwyn was astride a barrel, draining its contents while detailing his finer moments from the battle for a group of enthralled youths. They seemed to admire the dwarf as much for his formidable alcohol tolerance as for his adeptness in combat. 

Leliana approached with cheeks flushed and her bow slung over her back. She had received almost as many toasts as Alistair for her prowess in battle. 

“No dead villagers!” the bard exulted, eyes glittering. “The Maker smiled on our cause tonight. My heart is glad to see the townsfolk so happy.” 

“Your arrows made no small contribution to that, my lady,” offered the bann with a smile, his helm beneath his arm. “I’d wager you could outshoot any of my hunters.”

Leliana gave a mellifluous laugh, waving her fingers as though deflecting his compliment.

“My arrows were guided home by a heavenly hand,” she replied with a smile of practised modesty. “I can’t claim - what _ happened?”  _

The last part of her remark was directed to Flora, who was most inadequately dressed for a winter night.

“My vest was torn,” replied Flora in her customary laconic manner. “And my coat is in the lake. I’m going to fish it up.” 

Leliana drew in a deep breath, although she could not entirely hide her glee at the opportunity to garb Flora in something other than ugly and sagging men’s clothing. At the current moment, she knew where to find a temporary solution. 

“There ought to be some spare robes in the chapterhouse,” she murmured, gesturing to the antebuilding at the side of the Chantry. “I know where they’ll be kept. Come with me.” 

“Let’s be quick,” warned Flora, ominously. “There’s a squire with his leg split in two.” 

Alistair eyed his sister-warden as she scuttled after the bard; the two weaving their way around a crowd of townsfolk lugging past yet another barrel. Many were still clad in the garb they had defended their town in: makeshift armour hanging off like shedded snakeskin. The dwarf was encouraging them, tankard in hand as though he had already forgotten Flora’s earlier portent on his liver. As the ale streamed forth, a half-dozen tankards tussled to intercept the pale gold stream. 

“To look at them,” murmured Teagan, who had limited himself to a single bottle. “You’d think that the threat had been vanquished entirely. This reprieve will only last a day, and then the attack resumes at sunset. They’ve drained the tavern dry.”

“They’re celebrating no lives lost, ser,” offered one of his knights, who had drunk more than his fair share. 

“A feat never to be repeated once they face the enemy with ale-fogged heads tomorrow,” replied the bann, stifling a groan. “Far be it from me to end a party prematurely, but someone needs to preserve their steadiness of their sword-arms.” 

The younger Guerrin headed purposefully towards the crowd, flanked by his knights. Alistair watched him for a moment, the weight of his sword heavy against his knee. The pressure reminded him that the weapon was still coated in foul matter; he unsheathed the blade and wiped it on the nearby grassy bank. It took several minutes to remove the last of the cloying smears, and the effort resulted in a dull ache across his chest. He had received no direct wound during the conflict, but he had a suspicion that his skin was a mass of bruises beneath the mail. 

“If it isn’t the man of the night!” 

The dwarf’s voice was remarkably clear considering the amount of alcohol he had imbibed over the past hour. Alistair startled, the handle of the blade nearly eluding his fingers. The mercenary Dwyn had sidled away from the crowd as Teagan approached: he had no desire to receive a lecture from a minor human noble.

Alistair snorted and shrugged off the praise, sliding the blade back into its sheath. The dwarf stepped back and looked up with exaggerated wonder, shielding his eyes as though dazzled.

“You’re a hulking creature. Sure yeh ain’t part Qunari?”

“I wouldn’t mind being the son of a Qunari right about now,” observed Alistair, drily. “But I’m pretty sure I’m just a bland old human.”

The dwarf snorted, taking a gulp from a delicate silver flask. 

“A fellow your size should handle his liquor well. Drinking contest in the Gull and Lantern?”

“Thanks,” the young warrior replied. “But I’m going to stay with my sister-warden.”

“Aaah,” Dwyn said, in tones of conspiratorial understanding. “I get it. Best way to relieve that  _ post-battle adrenaline, _ is some of the old... _ .” _

He made a lewd gesture with both hands. Alistair’s jaw dropped, his mind flailing.

“Whaa?  _ No.  _ No, that’s  _ not- not… ” _

The dwarf gave a belly-laugh that sounded like the emptying of a drain. At the same moment, there was movement in the chapterhouse entrance. Due to the taint that ran through their blood, Alistair could sense his sister-warden’s nearness before he laid eyes on her. Yet the connection between them felt different from the one he had shared with the other Wardens. Duncan’s blood had run so thick with the corruption that his presence felt like a manacle. The other Wardens had seemed bound to him with rope, their connection sturdy and durable. The taint in Flora’s blood tasted like a whisper; as though it had passed through a filter that had drained much of its potency. Her presence was a cobweb, flimsy and fine: a strand gossamer thin that raised the hair on the back of his neck. He was not even sure that this last effect could be blamed on the taint.

The bard strode towards them, with the air of someone who had just decisively ended a conversation. Flora followed in her wake, her solemn face rigid with even more haughty indignity than usual. She was draped in voluminous ivory robes, the sleeves flapping past her arms. 

“I look like a seagull,” Flora said malevolently as soon as she came within earshot, eyes like chips of ice.  _ “The worst bird.”  _

While Alistair was suppressing a smile - he had rarely seen his placid, temperate sister-warden so irate - the dwarf took the opportunity to chime in, not bothering to hide his own grin. 

“So you two off to have some fun, eh?”

Flora assumed that he was referring to her upcoming mending of the injured squire. 

“Yes. I like it better than fighting.” 

Dwyn gave a bawdy cackle while Alistair passed a hand over his face, fingers parting on the straight length of his nose. He was unsure whether the prickling damp on his forehead was perspiration or the resumption of the drizzle. 

“Do you… want to come and watch?” Flora continued tentatively, uncertain why the dwarf was cackling instead of answering.

The mercenary’s eyes lit up and Alistair hastily intervened, checking his sword was back in its sheath before striding forward. 

“Let’s go, Flo. A split-in-two leg awaits.” 

Dwyn’s chortling followed them across the earth and into the Chantry. Night had tempered the bleakness of the interior hall; the crude-hewn faces of the statues softened by the mellow aura of burning wax. Between the candelabras, wells of shadow hid the effigies of long dead priestesses, prostate figures resting on their eternal biers. The windows overhead let in angular slivers of moonlight: long fingers added lustre to the flagstones. Limestone pillars stood at regular interval, facing each other like guards from opposing factions.

The bedrolls had been laid out in anticipation of the night’s patients: only two were occupied. At the far end Hamunde lay prostrate; only the slightest movement of his chest indicating that he was still alive. Several yards away was Teagan’s squire, white-faced and sweating; the shock of his wound had temporarily numbed the agony. A thin and continuous groan slid from his throat, which he did not seem to be aware of. Someone - possibly the priestess - had removed the crude parts of his armour and made an attempt to bandage the mess of meat and bone at his knee

Flora forgot about the hated robe the moment that she set eyes on her patient. Bundling up the trailing sleeves, she strode across the tiles; despite the removal of the pews, she subconsciously kept within the boundary of the non-existent aisle. Alistair followed the slight figure of his sister-warden, watching the stripes of moonlight slide over her as she crossed the hall. 

The space where the boy was lying was shadowed, the nearest pool of candlelight an arm’s length away. As Flora sunk to her knees beside the broken figure, Alistair glanced around.

“Want me to drag over a few candelabras?” he murmured; the hollow walls whispering the tail end of his question. “So you can see what you’re doing.”

“I can see,” she replied vaguely before exhaling a long breath and flapping her hands. Although the flailing gesture verged on comedic, the effect was astonishing: slender filaments of gold materialised around her like a dawn mist settling in a hollow. The wounded squire and the mender were illuminated with a gossamer light, one that shifted like the surface of a soap bubble. Alistair stopped in his tracks - he had been prepared to wrestle a freestanding iron candelabra closer - and instead leaned back against a pillar, watching without blinking. He thought how at ease Flora looked now compared to the hour before the battle; when she had been unable to sit still due to nervous agitation.

To Flora’s relief, the bann had abridged his squire’s injury to a simpler, more dire diagnosis. The leg was not ‘split in two’, but the bone was broken in ragged shards below the knee. The squire let out a moan: it was a wound that ended his dreams of knighthood, or of riding a horse again. It meant a life spent as a cripple, begging with a bowl on the street as the world passed by. Flora rested her fingers on his forehead, leaning in close.

“You ain’t got a problem with me mending you, have you?” she enquired, managing to stop herself from glowering at stubborn, dying Hamunde. “Mending you with… with  _ magic.”  _

Something unintelligible forced its way from the boy’s constricted throat: Flora took this as consent, and set to work. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it comes across that Flora’s shielding/prowess in battle is still pretty embryonic at this early stage (my new fave word so expect it to come up a lot! Hahaha) here. Plus, the contrast between how uncomfortable she is before the battle, and how relaxed she is preparing to mend her patient. Her general is brutal with his critique though - he doesn’t pull any punches! I wanted her to have more of an arc in terms of developing her shielding this time, since in the first version of the story she was pretty competent in battle from the start, which would be unrealistic for a sheltered girl from a rural village/Circle. Alistair, Leliana and the others have performed a lot better! 
> 
> Also, Alistair has come a long way from calling Flora’s magic weird to her face :D now he actively chooses to watch her heal!
> 
> Hope you’re all safe and well :)


	52. Interruptions

Moonlight’s pale, steely sheen blurred into the muted aura of the candles; the Chantry was lit in melting patches. The dead women who had once presided over Redcliffe’s Chantry slumbered in a procession of stone effigies that framed its main hall. If the priestesses took issue with the manifestation of magic within the vaulted chamber, they sent no sign. Indeed, any ghostly protest would have been hypocritical after the assimilation of their souls into the Fade, source of all arcane energy. It was still, and silent enough to echo the faint drip of a leaking rooftile. 

In the sea of light and shadow, the bedrolls stood like islands. The dying man Hamunde was now quiet, the remnants of life escaping with each breath. In the centre of the hall, Flora knelt over her patient - literally: she was straddling the squire’s belly with her back turned to his face, bent almost double over the mangled knee. In her experience, her patients often grew agitated when they saw the workings of her magic - most viewed it as unnatural - and this allowed her to effectively obscure their view. 

Flora’s brow was furrowed; like a butcher, her world had shrunk to the mess of meat and bone before her. There were shards of cartilage lodged in the tattered flesh: she pulled them free with her fingers and dropped them to the tile. Her own knee, bound but throbbing after the night’s exertion, served as a reminder of her previous failure.

_ I can’t do a bad job of this, _ she thought to herself fervently, as Compassion hummed like an insect in her ear. _ I mended my own knee poorly and it’ll never be right. _

** _A mistake you will never make again, _ ** added her general. ** _Now, concentrate. This ought not be hard. _ **

One of the pillars seemed to shift, throwing shadow across a patch of moonlight. It was not a pillar, but a young man who stood tall and broad of shoulder: the movement cast a sheen of gold across his forehead from the nearby candles. Alistair watched his sister-warden as she bent double, absorbed in her work. He could see her hands moving in slight, deft gestures: tbe fingers curving through the air like scalpel and thread combined. Beside him, the tallow candle burnt through a half-measure, though time seemed to pass more slowly within the cool stone interior of the Chantry. 

Eventually Flora looked up at him, blinking away the healer’s sight so that she saw skin and not bone. The relentless exertions of the night had taken their toll: violet smudged beneath her eyes. 

“Could you fetch me something straight,” she whispered, then added, while yawning, “Pleaaaaase.”

Alistair went and retrieved the prayer book from the altar, wondering when he had lost his reverence for such hallowed objects. The prayer book was weighty and bound in vellum, dyed the brownish red hue of a bloodstain. He brought it to Flora, choosing not to look too closely at the squire’s raw wound.

“Thank you,” she replied, manoeuvring the book carefully onto the tile beside the flayed remnants of the limb. “I don’t want to give him a bendy leg. He’s got to ride a horse.” 

Alistair risked a glance downwards and found himself strangely fascinated by the cobweb-thin strands of white extending beneath Flora’s fingers; following the guidance of the prayerbook’s spine. The cobwebbed growth thickened within seconds, sealing over to form a rigid length of bone. 

“That’s amazing,” he said impulsively, his astonishment reverberating between the pillars. “Flo, you’re so clever.” 

She spared him a glance of vague alarm. “No.” 

“But - but _ look _at what you’re doing.” 

The muscle was growing now; spreading like reddish moss tethered to ropes of subcutaneous fat. Blood vessels knit themselves together in knots of fisherman’s twine. Flora’s fingers conducted the whole process; the small, sprouting ovals of her nails dancing in the twilight. 

“I ain’t doing it,” she replied, patiently. “Not really. It’s my spirit’s magic, I’m just… a tool. Guided by _ their hand. _I’m a tool!”

Flora was proud of this analogy: she thought it sounded rather eloquent. But Alistair did not look convinced, his eyes fixed unswervingly on her. 

“From where I’m standing, sweetheart,” he said softly, watching new skin unfurl beneath her coaxing fingers. “It looks a lot like you.”

Flora smiled up at him through damp hair and shadow, her pale eyes honeyed in the candlelight. Then she flinched - having received some inaudible reprimand from beyond the Fade - and hastily returned to her task. 

Not wanting to distract her any further Alistair began a circuit of the pillared perimeter, eyeing each prostate effigy in turn. The priestesses and their tombs had been sculpted from the reddish rock that dominated the surrounding cliffs; the effect was eerie, as if each holy woman had been flayed. Some were clutching Chantry tokens between clasped hands, others were cradling prayer books to stone bosoms. Only half of their name plaques were still legible; the rest blurred into obscurity. One macabre figure held both arms up to the vaulted ceiling in a soundless plea. Her right limb had been amputated, either from the passage of time or from clumsiness. 

_ Prophetess Helthra of Rainesfere, _ Alistair read. _ Receiver of the Words. _

“What… whaa…?” 

The youth’s startled question echoed around the stone hall. Alistair turned back to see Teagan’s squire pushing himself up at the waist, Flora kneeling at his side. He looked as though he had been struck over the head with the flat of a sword: dazed and bewildered.

“It might be itchy for a few days,” Flora said, eyeing the fresh limb. “Because the skin is new.”

The squire stared down at his leg, which was seamless and whole. It made no sense: the last time he remembered looking at it, the bone had been sticking through the flesh in raw fragments. He opened his mouth, but no sound came forth. Then he looked at Flora, who was unceremoniously wiping her hands on her bloodied skirts. The golden gleam was ebbing from her fingernails now, the aura around her hands melting away. 

Inhaling a sudden, shocked gulp of air, the youth scrambled to his feet. He shot a final frightened glance at the unescorted mage - the _ apostate! _\- then made a scuttling rush towards the double doors. 

Three yards from the entrance, a fist shot out and grabbed the squire by his collar. The youth gave a squawk: almost as frightened by Alistair looming from the gloom as he had been by the unsupervised mending. 

“Say thank you,” said Flora’s brother-warden pleasantly, his stare shot through with steel. “To the nice mage who fixed your leg.”

On registering the size of the man grasping him, and the ease with which a single hand held him in place, the squire decided to do as he was told. He delivered a stammering _thank you _to said _nice_ _mage_, who looked astonished; then, on being released, skittered towards freedom. 

As the echo of the closing door reverberated around the church Flora clambered up, slightly unsteady on her feet. It had been a long day, and a longer night; unlike most, her work had not finished when the last enemy had fallen. She yawned, not bothering to cover her mouth with the voluminous sleeve, then looked across at Alistair. 

“You should go and have your ale.” Flora rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes. “If you like. They want you in the tavern.” 

He half-smiled, one shoulder rising in a shrug. 

“Who’s _ ‘they’?” _

“Dunno. People.” She yawned. “I’m goin’ to wash my hands.” 

The soft growl of the north in her voice emerged more strongly in her tiredness; Alistair was struck by an odd jolt of familiarity. He searched his memory for its source, then recalled that Loghain Mac Tir’s cadence became more northern when the general was roused to anger. Alistair thrust the recollection back down into the well of his mind, not wanting his sister-warden tarred by the association.

“Careful,” he said, as Flora paused in the doorway and looked back at him. “You’re already on the _ third _ bath of the day, including your swim. I thought that was forbidden for a Herring girl?” 

Flora eyed him solemnly, her pale irises glinting like fish scales. “After this, I ain’t bathin’ till the Blight is ended.” 

While she scrubbed the blood from her forearms. Alistair occupied himself rearranging the furniture in the Chantry Mother’s office. They had planned their battle strategy in the oval chamber earlier that day, facing the bann across the formidable wooden desk. He decided against moving the bookshelves that divided the room, worried that he might instigate a mass collapse. Instead, with a silent apology to the dead priestess whose quarters he had appropriated, Alistair removed a pair of thick lambswool tapestries from the walls. They were both weighty and luxuriant to the touch. One depicted, in woven figures no higher than an inch, the Exalted March on the Dales; the other showed the trial of an anguish-wrought Maferath. Neither were particularly cheerful: Alistair arranged them face-down on the flagstones. Retrieving a smoking taper from the prayer hall, he lit the two candelabras on the desk and eight small flames merged into a single aura of gold. He left the rest of the chamber in shadow; the bookshelves stood like silent sentinels, each set a different angle to emulate the spokes of a wheel. 

Once the young warrior was satisfied, he began to remove the final pieces of his armour. Alistair had already divested himself of the more cumbersome elements: all that remained were greaves, gauntlets and the sheath of mail he wore beneath his breastplate. The weary muscle in his chest and arms protested at further exertion, a swift glimpse down the neck of his linen undershirt confirmed a mottled wreath of bruises. 

“I ain’t sleeping in this… this _ topsail _.”

Such was the weighted hush of the Chantry that Flora did not speak above a whisper, as though the stone ears of the effigies might be eavesdropping. Alistair released the shirt from his fist as his sister-warden shuffled in, almost tripping over the hem of the robe. Her damp hair had been wrangled into a plump and unravelling braid.

“The sleeves are too long,” she breathed, with a vague sense of melodrama. “They’ll _ strangle _me in the night. Or I’ll dream that I’m a seagull. I can’t risk it.” 

Alistair snorted, unfastening the laces that tied his own sleeves at the wrist. 

“You can sleep in this if you like,” he offered. “It’s not too sweaty.” 

“I wouldn’t care if it was,” replied Flora honestly: the scent of the human body had never bothered her. “Could you check my maimed back first?” 

It took him a moment to realise that she meant the shallow claw marks between shoulder blades; the scraping of the flesh inflicted earlier that evening. Alistair wondered if she was exaggerating for humorous purposes - although he had never known her to make a joke - then realised that it was most likely the first time she had ever been wounded. 

_ Or, wounded and recalls it happening, _he thought, recalling her broken knee and unconsciousness after Ostagar. 

Flora moved aside some papers on the priestess’ desk; setting them to one side in a careful pile. She then perched herself on the corner of the wooden slab, her back towards him, precarious as though she were sitting on a fence or an unlatched gate. Her shoulders shrugged and the heavy robe slipped down, revealing a white triangle of flesh below the nape of her neck. She reached behind her and drew the braid aside to give him an uninterrupted view.

Alistair approached, and rounded the corner of the desk until she was close enough to touch. She held herself very still as if he were about to perform some precise surgery, her chin bowed to her chest. He moved one of the candelabra closer, angling the shifting aura until it illuminated his sister-warden’s shoulders. The skin was unblemished, a swathe of milk-pale flesh decorated only with an isolated scattering of freckles. He swept his thumb across the unmarred flesh: an artisan tailor testing the purity of a rare silk. Unlike fabric, her skin was warm to the touch.

“There’s nothing there,” Alistair said hastily, after realising that he had stood in silence for almost a half-minute.

“Nothing?” she repeated, twisting her head in a vain attempt to replicate an owl. “It’s all fixed?”

“Yes. Did it… heal itself?” 

He could feel the gossamer light down of hair, invisible to the eye

“Mm. Can I still borrow your shirt?” 

“Yes,” Alistair said again, barely hearing the word as it emerged from his throat. The formation of freckles on her back was vaguely familiar, but he could not summon the coherence required to recall its likeness. 

He pulled his undershirt over his head, the bruised muscle of his torso protesting the movement. Flora reached back blindly and received a handful of fabric. She promptly began to squirm out of the priestess’ robe; Alistair turned himself around to stare at a bookshelf straining beneath the weight of several dozen tomes.

Letting the material drop to her waist, Flora paused to bite at a loose snag of nail.

“I didn’t see any fish in the lake when I was in it,” she said, idly. “I wonder if they get good catches here?” 

“I remember eating a lot of trout when I was living in the castle,” he replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the row of inscribed titles: _ Psalms and Psalters I; Chorales For The Martyrs; The Life of Andraste, Vol. X. _

Flora noticed a difference in the timbre of his voice and peered over her shoulder, heavy folds of fabric settled around her hips.

“Why are you talking to the wall?” she asked, bemused. 

“I’m giving you some privacy.” 

“Oh.” Flora was struck by a sudden recollection; her tone became apologetic. “Ooh, I forgot that you’re enraged by my body. I’m sorry, I’ll change in the Chantry.” 

Her statement was so absurd and so blatantly erroneous that Alistair almost fell face-first into _ Maferath’s Sin: In Three Parts. _When he replied, his voice emerged in a register far higher than usual. 

_ “I - I’m _ not _ enraged _ by your body. Wha, _ why? Why _would you think that?!”

Flora shifted herself on the edge of the desk, freeing an unfinished letter that had been trapped beneath her. 

“The first night at Ostagar,” she reminded him. “I was having a bath and you came in and saw me, and you were _ fuming _. You threw a blanket at my head, remember?”

There was no possibility that Alistair had forgotten her rising from the bathtub like a river maiden from Alamarri legend, serene and dripping. 

“I remember,” he said, softly. “But, I wasn’t angry. I was… shocked, I suppose.” 

Flora kept quiet, listening and fiddling with the laces of the skirt. The bard had tied the strings tightly, but she could claim years of experience at untangling knots.

“Because,” her brother-warden continued, and something prompted him to speak without the usual mask of humour or dryness. “In that moment, when I saw you… saw you there.I knew I’d been ruined for any other woman.”

Alistair risked a glance behind, his eyes caught in the pale current of her gaze. Flora was also looking over her shoulder; the contour of her naked waist and hip like the curve of an Orlesian violin. Her hair, the sooty red of a cherry’s skin, hung in damp tangles to the desk. She stared back at him, her mouth slightly open, he took a single step towards her; and then the door in the main hall gave a resounding _ thud _as it was swung open.

The heat in the air, like a breath held to its limit, dissolved in a rush. Flora blinked and pulled the shirt over her; Alistair exhaled and wondered if it had been his imagination, or if something inexplicable had passed between them during that taut and elongated pause. 

Teagan Guerrin strode into the chamber moments later, several tankards clutched in his fist. He had clearly ceded some ground on his earlier conviction; there was an ale-fuelled gleam in his eye. He looked at the two young Wardens - Alistair bare from the waist up, Flora clad in shirt and smalls - and let out a snort. 

“Well, between the two of you, you’re fully dressed,” he observed drily, depositing the tankards on the desk. Liquid splashed over the priestess’ final correspondence, seeping into the parchment and melting the ink. “Am I interrupting something?”

_ Yes, _ thought Alistair, mutinously. _ Or the start of something. Perhaps. _

Flora still bore a look of slight dazedness, as if she had been hit over the head with something hard. 

“I came to deliver your victory drinks,” the bann continued, gesturing to the tankards. “And to confirm our plan for tomorrow.” 

Alistair approached the desk and took his ale, relieved to add some moisture to the dry landscape of his mouth. It was a mid-quality beer with a smoky aftertaste; he drained it in several long gulps. 

“We’re going into the castle,” he said, recalling the brief fragments of a plan constructed earlier that evening. “Is it worth trying the entrance gate once more? You said it’s been shut.” 

“Locked and chained for a fortnight now. The dead must just _ climb _ over it each evening.” The bann gave a shrug. “We could take another look.” 

Flora surreptitiously released her sour mouthful of water, hops and yeast back into her tankard. 

“I can break it open,” she offered, after a nudge from her spirits. “The gate. I can use my shield. If we want to be _ obvious.” _

“We may not wish to be,” Teagan replied, watching her from the corner of his eye as she slithered down from the desk: bare legs and hair. “Things are far from right up there. It might be worth taking a cautious approach. I know a few other ways of getting in, if it comes down to it. We might have to fight our way through.”

They conversed for a few minutes more; Flora, wanting to avoid her tankard, sidled off between the bookshelves. The wooden shelves were bowed from age and the weight of the tomes crammed within them. She ran her finger along the array of leatherbound spines, and it came back dusty. The titles of the books were illegible to her: tangled of twisted symbols that slithered away when she tried to focus on them. 

**_Why are you hiding?_** demanded her general, their tone testy.

_ They’re talking strategy. I don’t know anything about it. _

** _Then this is your chance to learn. _ **

Flora did not see the point in her learning strategy: she was in charge of nothing, had no position of command and led no troops. She was content to let others take control of their battle plan - Alistair had more experience, Leliana seemed equally competent - and fulfil a supporting role. 

** _More is required of you. Don’t stagnate. _ **

Flora sighed, but obediently shuffled her way back along the shelf; towards the desk at the centre of the chamber. The bann was about to take his leave; leaving also the empty tankards for someone else to collect. After all, it was not the duty of a noble to tidy up after themselves.

“We’ll meet at dawn, then,” Teagan said, the corner of his mouth quirking as he noticed Alistair’s makeshift bedroll, laid out between the shelves. “Have a… good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh!! The sexual tension! Lol I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to keep these two apart! In the original story, they don’t even have their first kiss until after the Temple of Sacred Ashes and the Circle! XD I wanted to make the chemistry between them a little more overt this time. I don’t know if “I was ruined for” is a uniquely British idiom, but it basically means that, once you’ve seen/had/experienced something, nothing else will live up to that standard! Like, “once I had mint choc chip for the first time; I was ruined for any other flavour of icecream!”. 
> 
> I also wanted to show again how unprepared and inexperienced/unwilling Flora is to take a more central role - she’s totally happy being a mender in the background! Unfortunately, she’s going to need to get drastically out of her comfort zone during this story :) hope everyone is keeping safe and well!


	53. Stories In Shadows

A thin finger of draught passed through the Chantry Mother’s chamber, slipping in beneath the door that led into the main hall and taking its leave through a crack in the plastered wall. It nudged the strewn letters across the dead woman’s desk and harassed the slender flames that sprouted from the candleabra. The shifting light, pale as winter dawn, spilled over the flagstones like water: illuminating the lower parts of the bookshelves, the remnants of Alistair’s discarded armour and the tapestries he had laid out on the tiles. The bookshelves seemed to draw together around the centre of the room; as though shielding the two young Wardens from further interruption. 

As the bann closed the door behind him - the candlelight trembling precarious in the back draught - Alistair worried that he had been presumptuous. While Flora had been washing the residue of mending from her forearms, he had removed the two thickest tapestries from where they hung on the walls - a man of lesser height would not have been able to reach - and set them together on the flagstones, one on top of the other. Although he had just finished a tankard of ale, his mouth suddenly felt as dry as a Rivaini desert. He and Flora had come together in slow inches over the weeks until they shared a bedroll, but they had always set out a pair at the evening’s outset. Even so, during daylight hours, neither one acknowledged the new intimacy that blossomed at night. 

Caught in a net of doubt, Alistair failed to notice that his sister-warden had no reservations about the sleeping arrangements. Flora sat cross legged beside the makeshift bedding, holding her breath as she peeled the leather strap from her knee. To her relief the joint was not too swollen, and made little protest when she lifted the heavy weight of embroidery and manoeuvred herself beneath it. 

“It was a good idea,” she whispered, stretching her legs out beneath the tapestry. “To bind my knee. It was  _ Sten’s _ idea. I wonder where he’s sleeping tonight?” 

“I’m not sure,” Alistair replied, distracted. “Is it comfortable enough down there?” 

“Mm.” Flora picked up a thick fold and squinted at the shadowy figure stitched into the weave. “Who’s this? He looks miserable.” 

“Maferath, on trial for his betrayal. I think it’s metaphorical.” 

“Ooh.” Flora had only a rudimentary grasp of Chantry lore. 

Alistair leaned over the desk, drawing a steadying breath. He had meant to extinguish both candelabras, but was no longer sure that he entirely trusted himself in the dark with his sister-warden. Heart beating a taut rhythm between his ribs, he blew out one and left the other standing in its tremulous aura. The makeshift bedroll beside the desk was now half in light and half in shadow; the girl within it painted similar. 

“Maferath,” repeated Flora, impressed at his ability to identify the nondescript figure. “Hm.” 

Curious as to the contents depicted on the tapestry that served as groundsheet, she rolled onto her belly. Her fingers sunk into the plush fabric; distracted, she pressed her face against the expensive wool. 

“This is the softest thing I’ve ever felt,” she said in wonder, voice muffled by the stitching. “I didn’t know they could make cloth that wasn’t itchy _ .” _

Alistair lowered himself; such was the length of his body and broadness of his shoulder that it seemed as though part of the Chantry architecture had detached itself and settled down beside her. Flora lifted her face from the fabric, a strand of dun-coloured wool clinging near her nose as she rolled over. Propped up on an arm, Alistair touched his finger gently to her cheek, removing the stray fibre. She curled her mouth at him and the sentences he had been rehearsing earlier almost flew from his head. He kept himself raised on an elbow as she yawned, keeping a deliberate foot of air between them. 

“Flora,” he said in a low voice, and his tone was so uncharacteristically solemn that she peered up at him with curiosity. 

“Eh?” 

“As…” 

The structural beauty of her face, undiluted by distance, was too distracting; Alistair decided to speak to her ear instead. Focusing determinedly on the side of her head, he pressed on. 

“Flora, as… as a junior officer,” he said, as Flora, slightly confused, looked over her shoulder. “Of the Wardens. I need to say something about the battle tonight. And how it went.” 

From the hesitant cadence of his voice, Flora realised that she was about to get told off. Glumly, she wondered if his complaint would bear any resemblance to the stream of criticism she had already received from her general.

Alistair paused, his brow furrowed in three plough-lines. 

“Going up on your own to the bridge without saying anything,” he said, softly. “Then running out -  _ alone  _ again - onto the lake to save that fellow.” 

“But I have- ”

“- a shield,” he finished for her. “I know. But it doesn’t make you invincible. You were almost caught by them when you were running back from the bridge. And then you - you  _ fell.” _

Flora scowled, remembering her plunge into the cold and churning waters, lifeless fingers clawing through her hair. 

“You need to tell us what you’re doing, you need to stay with us.  _ Communicate.”  _

Alistair spoke with more confidence now that he knew she was listening, her pale eyes meandering across his face. 

“It was - it was reckless. Flo, you could have  _ died. _ ”

The last word had a rawness to it, the emotion ragged and unrefined. The single syllable was anchored in fear; the disbelief and horror when his friend dropped into the lake with the enemy. 

_ Reckless  _ was indeed the term that her general had used earlier, but it stung more coming from her brother-warden. Flora propped herself up on her elbow, the loose folds of his shirt slipping off her shoulder. She caught his gaze with the ease of one used to attracting attention. 

“I’m sorry,” she breathed in her soft, hoarse northern cadence. “You’re right. I didn’t think. I don’t really know the difference between being brave and being reckless.” 

Alistair touched his forefinger to the place where her hair met her forehead, the dark red in stark contrast to the blanch of the unblemished skin. He traced the half-oval of her brow, inch by slow inch. She held her breath, the air caught in her throat.

“I don’t think there’s much difference,” he replied, honestly. “But I can’t risk losing you, sweetheart.” 

Dropping her gaze to Maferath, whose penitence was still shown stitched into fabric centuries after his death, Flora remembered all that the young man beside her had already lost at Ostagar. She heard Alistair exhale, and looked up to see him settling back on the tapestry; his mouth taut with a tangled knot of emotion. He had not enjoyed reprimanding her, but he had seen it as necessary: she  _ had  _ been reckless.

Then, reflexively, he reached the broad bulk of his arm towards her. Relieved, she shuffled herself into his side, pressing her face into the hollow below his collarbone. Flora’s brother-warden closed his grip tightly around her, his thumb finding the bare upper arm. His shirt fit no better than her previous garb; it had been stitched for a man several inches above six feet. 

“Once we leave Redcliffe, there shouldn’t be any more battles,” Alistair said softly, wondering if she could feel the beat of his heart against her cheek. “Just formalities and diplomacy when we visit each faction. I know you don’t like fighting.”

His thumb traced idle patterns on her arm as he spoke: circles and slow, undulating lines.

“Mm,” agreed Flora sleepily, soothed by the steady cadence of his pulse. “I hope -  _ thereain’tmore _ \- of it.” 

Her words collided with tiredness. She yawned; Alistair felt the swell and ebb of a small breast against his ribcage. His thumb drew the outline of a Mabari against her arm, testing the warm pliancy of the flesh. 

“Anyway, there’s no more fighting to be done tonight,” he murmured, and there was a small part of him astonished by how at ease he felt. “Time to sleep.” 

Somewhere out of sight there was a heavy fold of drapery caught between Duncan’s two youngest recruits, a layer of embroidered wool separating them. Alistair groped towards it - not quite sure what he was doing - and his fingers brushed over the back of Flora’s hand: they had both reached down for the fabric simultaneously with the same end in mind. With the woollen crease smoothed, she was able to fit herself more neatly into the rugged landscape of his body. 

“‘Night, Alistair,” Flora whispered into the darkness beneath her brother-warden’s chin, her bitten nails snaking over his hand and into the gaps between his fingers. 

“Goodnight, Flo.”

“Oh,” she added, sleepy and solemn, “and you don’t need to use your… your rank to make me pay attention. Everything you say is worth listening to.”

It did not occur to Alistair to make the usual self-deprecating joke; instead, her words sunk slender roots into his brain. He did not reply, but turned his palm over to snare her fingers in his; clasping their hands tight together.   
  


* * *

Alistair awoke in the deepest part of the night, with an inkwell of darkness spilling around him. At first, he did not know where he was - tall silhouettes loomed about him like standing stones, while faint grey ribbons streaked the air - and then realised that he was in the study of the dead priestess. The shadows that reared above him were the bookshelves, the light came from slivers of the moon creeping through the shuttered window. The candles he had left burning on the desk had blown out, leaving the chamber in a gradient of grey to black. Dawn was still several hours away, the only sound was a faint sigh of wind through the rafters. 

Alistair then felt the emptiness against him; he was no longer sharing the weight of the tapestry. The woven wool descended into a crumpled flatness at his side. He gazed at the space where his sister-warden had rested, then settled onto his back with his empty arms behind his head. He was not worried about Flora’s absence - she had most likely gone to get a drink, or to the privy - but he would not return to sleep until she had returned. 

As he lay there, he thought about the morning that lay ahead. Even though it had been a decade since he had last made the journey to Redcliffe Castle, he could summon a memory of each portion of the ascent: the juncture of the road between town and castle, the hairpin bends that had terrified the lady Isolde in her carriage, the old wooden boarding that Eamon had been about to replace for twenty years. Finally, the stone span that connected Idelson’s Fall to the mainland would need to be traversed. When he was a boy - even with his additional height - it had taken him one hundred steps to cross the natural fortification.

_ It’ll take less now,  _ Alistair thought, and then realised that the bending of his arms behind his head had caused no ache across his chest. He shifted himself on his elbows until a thin bar of moonlight illuminated the skin: the bruised and dented flesh had returned to unmarried evenness. Only the old scars still remained, remnants of training accidents and glancing blows. 

Alistair searched his memory of the evening and could not recall his sister-warden mending him; he was sure that he would not have forgotten it. He then remembered how Flora had fallen asleep, her face tilted on his chest; each unconscious exhalation rolling over the skin like a tide, or the curative hand of an apothecary. 

The shadow and light scattered within the chamber; settling into new patterns as the door opened and quietly shut. Flora hesitated for a moment in the entrance - she had come from the firelit main hall - then, once she had regained her sight, padded over the tiles towards the desk. 

Alistair propped himself up as she narrowly avoided colliding with a bookshelf. The tapestry gathered in folds at his waist, weighty and expensive. 

“Did I wake you up?” Flora whispered, lowering herself awkwardly beside him. “The floor’s really cold.” 

“No,” he replied, drawing back the fabric. “Privy?” 

“Mm, yes. But then, I thought I’d check on - on Hamunde.” 

Flora bent her knees beneath her chin so that she could wrap her fingers around her cold feet. “And… and he’s dead.” 

“Right.” 

It came as no surprise to Alistair that the stubborn man had finally succumbed to his wounds; he had barely looked alive whilst Flora was mending the squire earlier that night. 

“I put the robe over him,” she continued, in a small voice. “But I didn’t think he would want the farewell prayer from- from someone like me.” 

Alistair looked at his sister-warden, her chin still on her knees, expression hidden by hair. He sat up fully, then reached out and moved a thick rope of red aside. Her profile, limned in silver by the moonlight, was downcast, the full mouth drooping and the eyes wistful. 

The young man did not know what to say to her - he  _ wanted _ to remind her that Hamunde had been an idiot, but was doubtful that this would have any positive effect. Instead, he kept his hand at Flora’s head; charting the fragile curve of her ear with his thumb. 

“‘Someone like you,’ he said quietly after a few moments of silence. “Someone sweet? Someone kind-hearted?” 

Flora swallowed - he saw the flex of her pale throat - and said nothing, but he could tell that she was listening. 

“Someone who tried their best to help him?” 

Alistair stroked her earlobe with the calloused ball of his thumb, wondering why such an innocent gesture felt so intimate. She half-nodded: three times, she had offered her services and three times, she had been rejected with increasing animosity. 

_ You can’t save everyone,  _ her spirits had warned her.  _ Let this be a lesson. _

“He should be honoured to have a prayer said for him by a  _ someone like you,” _ Alistair finished, letting his hand drop away with some reluctance. “Flora.”

Lifting her face, Flora beamed at him. It was as if the moon had erupted in brilliant luminescence from behind a bank of cloud. Alistair did not realise that he was holding his breath until his vision began to prickle with dark spots; he released the air in a rush. 

“Do you think I should go back in there and say the prayer for him then?” she asked, looking ready to clamber back to her feet. 

“No,” he said, then again, “No. Stay here with me. Tell me the story of Old Agamemnon. You said that you would earlier, remember?”

Flora nodded, recalling their conversation on the bridge overlooking the lakeside town. The exchange felt like it had taken place more than a day ago; a lot had happened since their arrival at Redcliffe the previous morning. 

“Old Edemonem,” she corrected as Alistair lay back on the woven tapestry, his eyes expectant. “The king beneath the waves.” 

She settled down beside him, resting on an elbow. One shoulder emerged from the slack neckline of her shirt; she pushed her hair back impatiently. The terrain of Alistair’s bare chest - the sculpted muscle delineated like a cartographer’s inking of plateaus and ridges - caught her attention. As a mender, she was deeply familiar with human anatomy: never before had she seen the musculature of the torso augmented with such precision. 

“Have you forgotten your story?” her brother-warden asked, mouth twisting in amusement as he gazed up at the underside of her chin. 

_ “No.”  _ Flora was indignant. “‘Course not. I was just distracted by you.”

Alistair’s smile widened, swift and startled. “You were?” 

“Mm,” she replied, with her usual lack of dissimulation. “They don’t make people who look like you in Herring. I ain’t used to it.”

In deference to their surroundings, he muffled the laugh in his elbow. The warm flood of pleasure in his belly was punctuated by a fishhook of a question, one that snared and stuck fast.

_ So they don’t make people who look like you in Herring? _

Rousing herself from preoccupation, Flora set her gaze on his face instead, hauling up the story he had requested from the well of her memory. Alistair, seeing her inhale, tucked his question away for later. He settled back on the tapestry, watching her shift on her elbow above him until she found a comfortable spot. 

“Old Edemonem,” she said after a pause; letting her eyes drop until they found his. “Ruled the Waking Sea before the first Age was named. He kept the waters tame so there were no waves, and no wrecks; the sea was as flat as the back of your hand.” 

Flora lifted her own hand to illustrate; the slender and nail-bitten fingers held rigid.

“He lived on the bottom of the sea, where there are caves like cathedrals, and castles built from coral reefs,” the girl continued in a whisper. She had never seen a cathedral, nor a coral reef, but that was how the story was told and so that was how she told it. The words were far older than her, and she did not need to understand them to use them. 

“His walls were built from seashells, and the pillars were made of pearl. The floor was a thousand pieces of seaglass. But Old Edemonem could never move from his throne because if he did, the water would become wild again. He had to sit and be still; so that the waves would also be docile. And as the years went by, seaweed grew over his throne and limpets stuck to his skin, and no one visited his halls.” 

A golden sheen gleamed dully beneath her nails, and as she gestured, the air was streaked with dissipating trails of light. Her illuminated expression was solemn; though her face was naturally built in a somber vein. 

“But he had taken a queen,” Flora said, her words displacing the remnants of her magic. “And his wife grew tired of a husband who sat on his throne and did not move. So one night, she turned herself into a herring and escaped. But Old Edemonem knew every creature in the Waking Sea, and he realised that it was not really a fish, and that his wife was fleeing him. He tore himself free from his throne in a rage, and went after her. The water grew wild and vengeful as the old king hunted the queen, and the angrier he got, the higher the waves grew. In the end, he couldn’t find her and so he cursed the sea that had let her escape: cursed it so that it would never be at rest.”

Flora’s voice had taken on a practised rhythm as she recited the folktale: like a priestess declaiming the Chant, she had learnt the formalities of the story by heart. The hoarse airiness of the north ran through her voice; each word resonating a coastal echo. 

“And that’s why the Waking Sea is always in a rage,” she finished, barely above a whisper. “It won’t grow calm until Old Edemonem returns to his throne.” 

Alistair’s eyes were closed, and she thought that he had gone to sleep; until he opened them, and smiled slowly at her. 

“I was just picturing his palace in my head,” he said, softly. “With the floor made of seaglass, and the overgrown throne.”

“I never seen a palace,” Flora confided, reverting to her natural commoner’s patois. “Ain’t it like a… big castle?” 

“Yes,” he replied, having once glimpsed the Royal Palace on a journey to Denerim with Duncan. “Lots of towers. Lots of flags.” 

Denerim Castle - ancestral seat of the Theirins, and built on the old bones of an Alamarri clan hall - loomed above the canal city on an elevated thrust of rock. It was an ugly, sprawling and half-ruined fortification; whole sections had fallen into decay while new ones were added with little thought to overall cohesion. The most recent addition to the basalt walls was a set of decorative brickwork crenellations: personally designed by Cailan. Orlesian inspired and entirely impractical for defence purposes, they were despised by all save for the king himself. Loghain Mac Tir had ultimately resolved the matter during a training exercise with siege weaponry, when one of the ballista was subtly re-angled towards the ‘aesthetic battlement’. When Duncan learnt about the incident, it prompted some rare praise: one of the few times that Alistair heard his commander compliment the general. 

“Lots of rooms,” he said to Flora, who was squinting towards the ceiling and unsuccessfully trying to envision a palace. “Lots of self-important people.”

As Alistair spoke, he reached up and found her hairline with his fingers, pushing them deeper into the mass of burnt red. He could feel the warmth of her head and the gentle contour of her skull beneath the skin. He wondered when he had grown so comfortable with such closeness; at what point he had learnt that if he touched Flora, she would smile. 

Sure enough, the corner of her mouth curved upwards and she canted her head a few degrees to the side; enough to rest her cheek in the hilt-worn curve of his palm. Alistair’s thumb traced the bone beneath the skin; the delicate architecture upon which her face was built. 

“I don’t see the purpose of lots of rooms,” Flora said thoughtfully, having grown up within the four damp walls of a fisherman’s hut. “You can only be in one room at a time. Why have more?”

She looked so genuinely perplexed that Alistair had to laugh, the sound echoing between the bookshelves that surrounded them. He realised then that he did not want to say goodnight to her, because when they woke up next it would be morning; and they would revert to the polite, tentative formality that existed between them during the sunlit hours.

“Thank you for the story,” he said, quietly. “I wonder if there’s any truth in it?” 

Flora shrugged; her clear irises like polished chips of sea glass. 

“Dunno. They say the queen came ashore where Herring is now. That they named the village after the fish she turned herself into.” 

Alistair put his arm around her and eased her down into the crook of his shoulder, she tucked herself against him like a crab within a new shell. Her hand groped for the tapestry that served as blanket; it was beyond her reach and so he retrieved it, tugging the heavy fabric up over them both. 

“I can see both sides,” he breathed into her hair as a curious palm wandered over the terrain of his chest. “Edemonem had a duty as a king to stay on his throne and keep the water calm. But, as a  _ husband _ , he had certain….  _ obligations _ to his wife.” 

Both young Wardens fell silent as they thought about the  _ nature _ of these obligations. Alistair’s gaze dropped and his eyes tethered to Flora’s; she was looking up at him with the full mouth slightly open. He could feel her bare thigh against his leg, her knee bent over his own with casual intimacy. 

Then, with a suddenness that even took her by surprise, she yawned. Alistair, resigning himself to the night’s resolution, returned his eyes to the ceiling.

“We... should get some rest,” he said, a touch wistfully. “Maker knows what’s waiting for us inside that castle.”

“Mm,” agreed Flora, somber and sleepy. “Better not be  _ ghosts.” _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha ha at Alistair predicting that there’ll be no more fighting after they leave Redcliffe! Haha! As far as he knows, they’re just going to go to the mages, dwarves and elves and get their promises of aid! Hahaa! Unfortunately it’s not going to be that simple.
> 
> Ugh the problem with making your own folklore up is keeping track of spelling the weird names you invent!! Had to go back and correct the million ways I’d spelt Edemonem: edememnon, edamemon, etc! Pretty sure I’ve missed a few too lol. 
> 
> Not going to lie, I love the idea of Loghain deliberately firing a ballista towards his son in law’s fancy and useless decorative battlement XD 
> 
> Flora’s two fears: seagulls (bane of all fishermen!) and ghosts (she assumes they can get through her shield) 
> 
> Thank you for reading! This was a long chapter but important for developing the relationship between Alistair and Flora, and building their characters more (especially Alistair - him feeling confident enough to point out her mistakes in battle is important I think!)


	54. New Flora Art Commission!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK I hadn’t commissioned any art of Flora for ages because, you know, NEW BABIES need a lot of stuff T_T. But I’ve done some extra stuff for work, made some extra ££ and decided to honour my revisiting of this work by getting a new commission! This gorgeous piece is from naochan003 on tumblr, they are so talented and their commissions are open :) I hope you like this picture of Flora! She’s definitely thinking about fish here XD


	55. To Redcliffe Castle

Flora was woken the next morning by a shaft of sunlight across her face. She grimaced at the unwelcome intrusion - she was warm, and did not want to move - and tried to ignore it. Sleep remained within reach, its oiled handle had not yet slipped from her fingers. The wavering green-gold light of the Fade still blurred the corners of her eyes; it would take little effort to return to the mossy depths of unconsciousness. 

Yawning, she turned her head to the side; and felt the brush of delicate fabric against her cheek. Confused - as a rule, she and _ expensive things _ did not mix - Flora opened an eye and felt her heart skitter in alarm: a resentful, embroidered face glowered back at her.

_ Maferath, _ Flora recalled after a moment; memories of the previous night unfurling. _ The tapestry showing Maferath on trial. We used it as a blanket. Because we went to sleep in - where? Where are we? _

She opened both eyes, blinking until the chamber came into slow focus around her. The air was punctured with sallow shafts of light; diffused by the dusty glass pas it entered. An early sun had not yet mustered the energy to infuse the world with colour and the Chantry Mother’s study was cast in varying hues of grey. The flagstones blended into the stone walls; the contents of the bookshelves were hidden in shadow. The only brightness in the room came from beneath her; Flora looked down at the man who had served as her mattress for much of the night. The tawny skin of his chest was the same earthen shade as a fresh-ploughed field; the golden hair had a brilliance that would put any royal diadem to shame. She thought that he had a certain _ shine _ that had nothing to do with magic; as if someone had come along and polished him in the night. 

Flora’s gaze lingered on her sleeping brother-warden’s face. For once, the clear and handsome features were not distorted by a self-depreciating twist of humour. Her eyes wandered from the brutal angle of the jaw, to the proudly jutting nose and then up the wide, unlined brow; as though she were a sculptor taking measurements. 

Then, as if her scrutiny had a physical pressure, Alistair opened his eyes. Even before the haze of sleep had cleared, his mouth widened in pleasure. He reached up with easy confidence, cupping her cheek within the callused hollow of his palm. 

“Morning,” he said softly, thumb tracing the sloping bone below her eye. He wondered if - this time - the arrival of dawn might not mean a return to their daytime formality. 

“Morning. I don’t want to get up,” Flora frowned, mildly appalled at her own laziness. “I’m comfortable.” 

“Then don’t,” Alistair replied, feeling her weight shift on top of him. “You’re not in Herring. You don’t need to bring the… barnacle pots in.” 

She wondered if he was joking: _ BARNACLE POTS?? _

_ “Lobster _ pots,” she corrected, brow creasing. “Barnacles grow on rocks.” 

A rope of her hair lay coiled on his shoulder, dark and red as vein-blood. Alistair followed the strand to where it sprouted just north of her ear, one of the many that had escaped her braid during the night. 

“We still have things to do,” she reminded him, solemnly. _ “Duties.” _

The last word was a recent entrant in Flora’s vocabulary: inscribed there by the late Warden-Commander. Duncan had assigned Flora her duties in person each morning: giving the excuse that she could not read the rota posted daily to the broken pillar. After a while, she had been able to predict her day before he described it: _ accompany Alistair at drill; assist in the infirmary; come to my tent and exhale the taint from me so that l can still call myself a man. _

Her use of Duncan’s vernacular had not escaped Alistair, his thumb still wandering the shell of her ear at a steady pace even as his mind raced. He was aware that he had ventured perilously close to the boundary of friendship the previous night; had perhaps even edged a toe into the unknown and thrilling territory beyond. The realisation that he no longer saw Flora as merely a _ sister _ \- had he ever? - kindled heat in a dozen places within his body. It had been a startling revelation: the women of his youthful fantasies were warm-eyed, buxom and merry. Flora was none of these things: her beauty was glacial, imperious and unapproachable, her eyes ran as cold and clear as a northern river. He did not think that she even possessed a sense of humour. She spent half her waking hours in a daydream, either talking to those strange spirits or fantasising about the repulsive Herring. 

_ And yet, _Alistair thought to himself, feverishly. 

But when he sought to examine this new feeling more closely, his conscience summoned the usual reproachful spectre: one that Alistair knew all too well. From the tail of his eye he could see his dead commander standing by the bookshelf, starkly intimidating in the Rivaini armour that he flaunted before those made uncomfortable by it. Duncan’s dark eyes burned like coals within a mass of shadow; the gold of his earring glinting like a half-buried coin.

“Duties,” Alistair repeated, reluctantly wrestling his mind back to the task at hand. “Infiltrating the castle, you mean. Finding out the cause of the attacks.” 

Flora did not know what _ infiltrating _meant. She propped herself up on her forearms, careful that her elbows did not dig into his chest. 

“I might be wrong,” she ventured, hesitant. “But the smell of them - the dead - last night. They didn’t smell like death. They smelt like… blood. Blood and magic.” 

Her spirits gave a flicker of approval. Alistair nodded: he had first set eyes on Flora across a chamber saturated in blood magic, and could recall the cloying scent.

“You think there could be a maleficar in the castle?” 

“Dunno.” She gave a vague shrug, another strand of hair slithering loose from her braid. “Suppose we’ll find out.” 

“I suppose we will.” 

Alistair did not want to get up; Flora made no sign that she was going to move. Instead of pushing back the tapestry and rolling off, she shifted position on his chest and yawned again. Her eyes wandered over the leatherbound spines crowding the lowest part of the bookshelf: she could read none of them. Alistair let his hand settle on the small of her back, light as a fallen leaf. He could feel the heat of her skin beneath the shirt; like sun-warmed stone.

The dawn sun, bolder now, was lighting the chamber in parts: the letters on the desk gleamed like a spill of milk, the dyed spines of the leatherbound books a gradient of muted colour. Even the dull flagstones below them had been loaned lustre by the cool light of morning. 

“Sorry about - that,” Alistair murmured after a moment, while astonished that he did not _ feel _ particularly apologetic, nor did he feel embarrassed. 

“Eh,” replied Flora, fascinated. “It’s a morning thing, ain’t it?”

Alistair looked at the girl sprawled atop him: his own shirt rucked up in folds around her waist, bare legs tangled casually in his. Her hair was like a broken bottle of Antivan-wine, streams of decadent crimson spilling over him. 

“Not entirely, sweetheart,” he said quietly, astonished at his own frankness.

The corner of Flora’s mouth curved up; her eyes curious. Her fingers brushed through the hair at the top of his head; light as a summer wind between long grass.

“Does this ever lie flat?”

“Only if I wear a hat. Or oil it down.” 

“A hat.” She smiled at him. “Or oiled. Like a mackerel.” 

Alistair opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a shuffling scrape of leather against wood. Both he and Flora, startled, looked to the nearest bookshelf. Sure enough, it now bore gaps where several texts had been removed; like a mouth missing teeth. The lay sister stood nearby, rifling expertly through a tome with slender, oval-nailed fingers. Although she had cast off last night’s bardic leathers in favour of a demure and vaguely clerical robe, Leliana had entered the chamber with the stealth of a spider. 

“I’ve been asked to lead the morning service,” she said in lieu of a greeting, glancing swiftly at them over the top of the text. “Since the Chantry Mother is with the Maker. It’s a great honour to be asked. _ Technically _ a lay sister such as myself oughtn’t preside over prayers, but these aren’t _ normal _circumstances.” 

Leliana made no comment on the scene before her: if she was surprised to see the two together, it was well-hidden. Instead, she waved the book at them; her eyes already returning to the cluttered shelf.

“I’m looking for a certain book of psalms: _ Elegies for Andraste. _ I’m sure it’ll be here somewhere, it’s _ mandatory reading _for any devotee of the Maker.” 

She thumbed through the text, then gave a small huff of impatience and returned it to its brethren. Flora, mustering some energy, rolled off Alistair and ended up on tbe flagstones. She lay belly down on the cold tile and rubbed her eyes with her borrowed shirtsleeves, yawning. Alistair hoisted himself to his elbows, the tapestry dropping to his waist. 

Practised in the art of subtle looks, Leliana darted her eye over the pair - despite the intimacy of tangled limbs she had walked in on, they were at least part-dressed. The lay sister allowed herself a moment to appreciate both his bare-chested bulk and her dishevelled, sleepy-eyed beauty; then returned to the task at hand. 

“There’s a series of verses I almost remember off by heart,” she said, sliding another book free and inspecting the contents. “About the banality of sin. The mundanity of evil. And how faith can purge the soul of these prosaic fetters, and allow it to soar unhindered.”

Flora wondered if Leliana had transitioned to her native Orlesian: she could understand about one in every four words emerging from the woman’s mouth. Pulling the leather band free, she began to wind the unruly rope of hair into a bundle atop her head. 

“But perhaps - _ perhaps, _in light of current circumstances - I should make the torment of Andraste the heart of my service,” the bard continued, the excitement palpable. “Yes! I could draw a parallel between the foe here and the soulless tormentors of Our Lady. Use them as an allegory.” 

“Sounds good to me,” replied Alistair pleasantly, glancing around for his overshirt. The prospect of being trapped in the Chantry by Leliana’s prayer session had successfully roused him from the makeshift bedroll, while also rendering him in an appropriate state to do so. “Nothing like a bit of _ torment _ first thing in the morning to put you in a good mood. Flora, you still want my shirt?” 

“Eh, you can have it back,” replied Flora vaguely, having pushed herself to her knees. She was about to pull it over her head, then came to a sudden realisation. “I don’t have anything else to wear. My tunic got clawed.” 

Leliana’s eyes lit up above the book she was perusing. 

“I will find you something,” she declared, closing the text before sliding it between the folds of her robe. “A petite creature such as yourself should not be _ swamped _ in mounds of shapeless fabric. I may have some leathers that might fit you.” 

Flora looked sceptical: her eyes moving over the bard’s sinewy, powerful frame and jutting bust. As befitting an archer, Leliana also stood several inches taller than the average female. 

“I don’t need anything fancy,” she said, hastily. “I’ll find something.” 

Leliana’s nostrils flared with the alarm of an Orlesian seamstress. “My friend, from what I have come to observe over the past week - you would be more than happy to garb yourself in _ sacking _if needs be.” 

_ “I wish _ I had a sack,” replied Flora, fervently. “Sackcloth is tough and warm. It keeps rain out. They’d _ fight to the death _ over a sack in Herring.”

Alistair, who was trying not to laugh in the background, interceded before Leliana’s face could contort in further horror. 

“Keep the shirt, Flo,” he said easily, running a thumb over his chin and wondering whether to bother shaving off the night’s growth. “I’ve got another one in my pack.”

As Alistair rounded the corner of the desk, he directed a quiet comment towards Leliana: “Besides, if we want to keep everyone focused on the mission - like Bann Teagan, for one - we _ won’t _be putting my sister-warden in skintight leather.”

_ And me, _ he thought grimly. _ Maker’s Breath. _

Flora, oblivious, was binding the strap around her knee while peering around the chamber. She was hoping that a sack might have somehow manifested between the bookshelves during the night.

_ “Oui,” _conceded Leliana, bowing her head in amused accord. “I see your point.” 

Just then, a tentative rap pushed the door open further; widening the swathe of light on the flagstones. A boy stood there, freckled and nervy; shifting from one foot to the other. After a moment Alistair recognised him as the stable lad from the tavern. 

“Some provisions for the Grey Wardens and their companions,” the boy said in a rush of chattering teeth, thrusting forward a weighty hessian sack. “With our thanks.” 

Flora’s eyes lit up: _ a sack!! _Leliana sighed as only an Orlesian could. 

* * *

  
The pair of young Warden-recruits escaped the Chantry as the lay-sister began her prayer service; the sonorous proclamation of the opening verse cut off abruptly as the door shut behind them. The morning had not lived up to dawn’s tentative promise: the sun sulked beneath a low-hanging cap of cloud that cast a long shadow over Redcliffe. Not only was the town made drab and colourless by such unfavourable weather, but it was also being soaked by an apathetic drizzle. Puddles formed like small seas on the bare earth; turning dusty ground into reddish-brown mud. No one else seemed to have ventured beyond their front door: perhaps sleeping off the night’s exertions and subsequent excesses. 

“Typical,” remarked Alistair, squinting up at the unfriendly skies as skeins of the Chant crept beneath the door. “Raining _ again.” _

“Ooh,” said his sister-warden, secretly delighted: such a chilly and miserable drizzle reminded her of the north coast. “Mm.” 

“I wonder if the Wardens who ended the previous Blights got rained on,” he continued, warming to the topic as the singing dwindled behind them. “The legend never says: ‘_ and Garahel led the armies of Thedas while getting pissed on by the sky.’ _Although he fought the Archdemon in Antiva, so it was probably roasting hot. Just our luck that Ferelden gets more rain than all the other countries put together.”

“Ain’t we lucky,” intoned Flora solemnly, without a shred of sarcasm.

_ “Lucky,” _he replied. “Isn’t the word I’d use. ”

Alistair did not get the opportunity to demonstrate his choice of vocabulary: the bann, trailing a small cluster of armed men, appeared at the fork in the road. Teagan Guerrin had reached the age where a hard night left its echo on the face the following day: still handsome, but fraying at the edges. 

“Sleep well?” he enquired, mouth twisting dryly. “You both look... _ refreshed _. And- ah, forgive my manners - good morning, my lady…!”

The bann’s voice, which had shifted to a richer tone when addressing Flora, rose once again in surprise. His eyebrows lodged themselves in the faded auburn of his hairline. 

“My lady, are you wearing - a sack?”

Flora was _ indeed _ wearing a sack: one with holes cut in the necessary places, augmented with a leather belt and leggings beneath. _ Kerbrook Turnips _was clumsily daubed in tar across her abdomen. 

“I got a new outfit,” she confirmed proudly, turning her coldwater eyes on him. “It ain’t even my birthday. I don’t think.” 

Teagan stared at her for a moment in naked astonishment - then shook his head, and returned his attention to the matter at hand. 

“Ready to try the castle’s front gate? It’s a place to start, anyway.”

There was a half-mile of distance between the town and the stone promontory that led to Redcliffe Castle. A road reared out of the clustered buildings; snaking higher on a ledge hewn into the cliff many generations prior. The original rough-cut track had been reinforced with stone and planking, the treacherous waterfall crossings replaced with sturdy bridges. A windmill marked the halfway point; the sails stood stationary in the fine and linear drizzle. The road meandered up the ruddy cliff-face, cast in permanent shadow by the vast and menacing presence of the castle overhead. The fortress seemed to sprout uninterrupted from its rocky foundation, as though it had sprung from the stone instead of built by human hand. Scrawny remnants of heraldry clung to the battlements, but the flagpole thrust from the main keep stood naked as a pointed finger.

The absence of the Guerrin colours seemed to trouble the bann as much as the castle’s recurrent discharge of the dead. As they approached the intricate weave of iron that barricaded the stone spur, Teagan voiced his concern out loud.

“I’ve not seen that flagpole bare since the old arl - our father - died,” he said, agitation cutting through each word. “And even then, the pennant shouldn’t be taken down altogether. Maker’s Breath - what’s _ happened _in there?”

“We should t-turn b-back,” ventured one of his men. “My lord, it’s too dangerous! There’s… _ unholy things _in there.”

“Bite your tongue and find your backbone,” retorted his unsympathetic master, fingers tapping a determined beat against the hilt of his sword. “Or, if you’ve lost it, ask the mender to grow you a new one.” 

Flora looked confused, but said nothing.

They halted on a ledge within shouting distance of the rocky spur: the castle’s first and most effective natural defence. The drizzle had not abated, but the waning wind now permitted some conversation. Teagan Guerrin’s palpable disquiet did not bolster his men with confidence. Alongside the two Wardens, the bann had brought six men-at-arms to accompany him; each one clad in the colours of Rainesfere. None looked enthusiastic to have been chosen: one man’s chattering teeth echoed within his helm. 

Alistair was grateful that he had donned his armour and retrieved his sword before joining the bann. The sight of the growing castle had ignited an odd mixture of emotion: his belly churned in an improvised alchemy. Beside him, Flora moved her damp hair from her face and followed his gaze; eyes wandering the crenellated landscape of the battlements. 

“That’s where you grew up?” 

“Yes,” he replied, then clarified, “in the stables.”

Unlike some of the other Herring children, Flora had never built elaborate structures from the coarse grey grit that covered the beaches. She narrowed her eyes up at the sprawling mass, with its towers like the thrusting hats of Chantry Mothers. 

“Lots of _ unnecessary rooms,” _she said at last, unimpressed. “I bet it’s cold in there.” 

Her brother-warden was about to respond, when Teagan made a low sound of shock. Alistair put his hand to his sword-hilt in preparation; but the name that emerged from the bann’s mouth caught him entirely by surprise.

_ “Isolde?!” _

Flora followed the bann’s incredulous stare. A small figure had emerged from the bowels of the castle and was hurrying across the spur, hunched against the restless air. They were wrapped in an array of bright fabric, which made them look like a jewelled beetle scuttling over the stone. 

“Oh, shit,” she heard Alistair say under his breath, and there was an oddness to his tone that made Flora look at him instead of the approaching figure. The warm olive of his skin had taken on a sallow cast; a vein throbbed above his right eye.

As the figure approached the far side of the iron gate, their features clarified. It was a woman with a taut and desperate bearing, whose beauty seemed to have been scraped out crudely from within. Her regal face had shrivelled; her velvet gown hung from a protuberant collarbone, and the rings rattled loose around her knuckles. Her eyes were still beautiful - the irises were the insipid blue of a duck’s egg - but coarsened with grief and worry. The arlessa’s gold band sat askew on her faded hair: an afterthought.

“Isolde,” said Teagan again as she approached the bars. “What in the Maker’s name- _ what the fuck is going on?” _

The bann’s voice rose, adrenaline surging hot and red in his blood. He strode to the gate and gripped the bars: gave it a furious rattle. The woman flinched as the bars clattered, but made no attempt to release the lock. Her body, thin as a blade of grass, was buffeted by the wind: a strong gust might have swept her over the edge. Lake Calenhad lay one hundred feet below, its surface chopped into white crests.

“Teagan,” she breathed, and when she lifted her hanging head, the rims of her eyelids were crimson. “Where have you been? _ Mais non _, it matters not. You must come with me.” 

Her voice was Orlesian and aristocratic. Teagan drew in a shocked breath, dismayed by the husk of the woman standing unsteadily on her feet before him. Isolde Guerrin was not yet forty, but appeared a decade older; worry had scored plough marks in the soft parts of her face.

“Where’s my _ brother?” _he demanded, setting aside her request for later. “And my nephew? What in hellfire is happening?!” 

The woman’s lips trembled and she blinked hard; drawing in a deep breath to keep herself calm. Decades of maintaining an aristocratic bearing assisted in this: although she wore no mask, her expression was equally opaque.

“I will explain everything to you,” she said, strange and stilted. “Once we get within the castle. You _ must _come with me.” 

While Flora puzzled over the woman’s thick accent Teagan rubbed his brow with the back of his glove, his jaw taut. When he said nothing, Alistair thrust aside his trepidation and stepped forward. 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go,” he said, then clarified: “it’s _ not _a good idea. If you’re going in, we should come with you.” 

The woman drew in a sharp breath; almost a flinch. Her chin lifted to take in the height that the stable lad had gained during the past decade. For the briefest instant, the worry was replaced with relief: _ now grown, he resembled Eamon in no way. _Her gaze raked him like a fine comb: taking in the width of the shoulder and the face of a dead king crafted on young bones. 

“Alistair,” she said after a pause, blinking twice in rapid succession. “You’re back.”

“Lady Isolde,” Alistair replied, grateful that the knot in his throat did not seem to be undermining his words. “We ought to come with the bann. Especially if it’s dangerous in there.” 

The arlessa pursed her lips and the lines that framed them deepened, as if scored by a knife. Alistair felt something squirm within his belly; he suddenly felt no more than a boy of ten, in trouble for stealing bread from the kitchens. 

Meanwhile, Flora had just received a pointed nudge from her spirits. Reluctantly - still worried about potential _ ghosts _ lurking within vaulted halls - she stepped out of Alistair’s shadow; inserting herself into the noblewoman’s line of sight. She had no idea who this _ Lady Isolde _ was, and it did not seem to be an appropriate time for introductions. 

“I could go with Bann Teagan,” she offered, hoping that her unwillingness was not too obvious. 

_ I can shield. A bit. _

** _Refrain from the caveat, _ ** retorted her general with a flicker of irritation. ** _If you practised more, you would be as proficient with the shield as you are in your mending. _ **

The arlessa’s eyes focused on the female voice : a hawk sighting a shiver of grass below. With a distinctly Orlesian fastidiousness, she began her swift inspection at the feet: muddy boots, moth-eaten leggings - the nostrils flared at _ Kerbrook Turnips - _and then her gaze arrested at Flora’s face. Shock pulled at the arlessa’s eyes and opened the mouth: the shiver of grass was not a fieldmouse, but a predator waiting to spring, teeth and claws bared.

“Teagan, who is this - _ this…” _

For once, Isolde was not sure of her words. The working of the tormented woman’s mind was a contradiction: some thoughts waded through mud and others raced beyond her grasp, twisting loose before she could form them. 

Flora had no idea why the arlessa had become so dumbfounded - on impression alone, she was the least intimidating person in the party. Since she had naturally forgotten to retrieve her staff, there was no sign on her person that identified her as a mage. 

“Isolde, _ there’s no time,” _the bann retorted; the narrowing of his eyes acknowledging her surprise. “The town can’t hold out for much longer against these constant attacks. What’s happened in the castle? Who’s in there? Is my brother - awake?”

The slight pause before the final word suggested that he had almost used another. The arlessa stared at Flora a moment longer, then gathered her thoughts and returned her attention to the bann.

“Teagan,” she pleaded, dropping her voice to a whisper as thin fingers wrapped around the bars of the gate. The rings scraped against the metal; the silk sleeves smeared with the lichen that covered the ironwork. “I can’t answer these questions - not here. Once we get inside, I will explain it- it will all become clear.” 

Isolde’s head swivelled; a swift, nervy glance directed to the stone walls behind her. 

“It’s a bad idea.” Alistair had thrown a cloth over the resentful child and interjected once again, jaw set and stubborn. “Flora and I at least should go with him.” 

A strange flicker passed across the arlessa’s face, her lips parted and then sealed tightly shut. Instinct and habit prompted her to dismiss the boy who had once swept her stables with a blistering retort; but Alistair was a boy no longer, and he had grown into some disconcertingly familiar features. After all, it was not her husband’s face that the young man wore, but another; one that had been sculpted in stone and painted on canvas; the strong, honest bones etched into the archives of Fereldan history. 

Yet there was no time to ruminate over this startling knowledge. The arlessa, careless of her precious silk wrapping, dropped to her knees. Crouched in the mud like a peasant child, with fingers clinging to the bars and drizzle mixing with the tears that coursed down her cheeks: the woman who had always prided herself on her position now prostrated herself. A shiver of astonishment passed through Teagan’s men at arms. 

_ “Only _ you, Teagan! _ Please.” _

The bann swore under his breath. He hesitated a moment more, then dropped a hand to his belt to check that his sword still hung at his thigh.

“Teagan,” said Alistair, alarmed. “You can’t- ” 

But Isolde was already clambering to her feet, hope igniting like a lantern on her weary face. She fumbled in the folds of wet fabric, retrieved a key and set about unfastening the chain that kept the pair of gates together. Flora heard her brother-warden let out a groan through gritted teeth. 

_ What should I do? _she asked her spirits, wondering if she should intercede. The wind had returned with renewed energy: the arlessa fought to keep control of the gate as it swung open. 

** _Watch. Wait. _ **

_ I’m sure I can smell blood. I know that smell. _

** _And is the woman injured? _ **

Flora cast her mender’s eye over the arlessa.

_ No. _

** _So what does that mean? _ **

It would take Flora - not the sharpest quill in the ink-well - several moments to decipher her spirit’s meaning. In the meantime, the bann had edged himself between the parted gates, which were hastily shut in his wake. Isolde was already hurrying back across the narrow span of stone, bent crooked against the wind. Teagan did not look back but set out after her; fingers clenched white around the hilt of his sword. The wind chased itself howling around the castle watchtowers; the remnants of the Guerrin banners writhing against the walls.

_ Blood magic! _ thought Flora at last, remembering her earlier suspicions. _ Ooh, that ain’t good. _

Beside her, Alistair let out a long breath; one that he seemed to have been holding since first setting eyes on Isolde.

“Shit.” He turned to his sister-warden, who was biting anxiously down on her thumbnail. “Now what?” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so they’re finally at the castle! Moving things along! Here we have the introduction of Isolde TEEEEEEAGAN Guerrin! WHO IS THIS WOMAN, TEEEEGAN? Anyway, I love the fact that Alistair (in my canon anyway!) basically has his dad’s whole face/body, so forget the whole trying to hide his parentage thing, lol. At least Isolde now can see that Eamon didn’t bang some random maid! (Or so she thinks?!) 
> 
> Anyway, speaking of banging et al, what are the chances that Alistair is going to remain in a zen/monk state each morning when waking up next to/literally entangled with! his sister-warden? Literally ZERO! Ha! Ha! Ha! At least she’s got no issue with it XD 
> 
> Ughhh this past week has been so busy! But finally managed to sort out a date for the removal firm/storage people to move us back to Wales :) the good thing about going home is that me/my parents know everyone, so the removal firm is owned by my friend’s dad and they’re doing it for mates rates! Hurray! Because otherwise it would have cost an actual grand D: no thank you! And now I have to start packing (ugh!!) and also wrapping Baby’s birthday presents (ready to be unwrapped, and then eventually packed up again lol) 
> 
> Hope everyone is well and staying safe.


	56. The Hidden Tunnel

The iron gates, chained fast, stood between the Wardens and the stone spur that reared through the windblown void; up to where the castle perched on its lofty overlook. The empty arrow-slits stared down at them like narrowed eyes; the unguarded battlements still as an abandoned shrine. To further the injustice, the cloud had swept across the sky as though drawn by the hand of the Maker, and a spiteful drizzle resumed. Yet another layer of shadow added itself to the shroud of gloom that cloaked the town of Redcliffe. 

Teagan’s men-at-arms clustered like lost sheep. They stared forlornly at the diminishing figure of their master as he followed in Isolde Guerrin’s wake. The bann had almost reached the far end of the rocky spur: a small hinged part of the entrance opened far enough to admit him, then slammed shut. The sound echoed back across the promontory like a taunt. 

Flora wandered across to the gates and curled her palm around the nearest iron bar. She gave an experimental flex of her fingers and the bar bent like a bowstring.

“We could follow them,” she said, uncertain. “I think I can break this with my shield. But…”

“But,” Alistair finished her thought, coming to stand beside her. He stared at the door that had swallowed the bann; the entrance framed by the bleak expanse of the castle wall. “Lady Isolde seemed pretty insistent that only the bann could go with her. If we broke in through the front entrance, it could - I don’t know. Make the situation worse. Whatever the situation is.” 

“Mm,” Flora replied, and he seemed relieved that she agreed with him. “Is there another way in?” 

Alistair snorted without humour, squinting up at the empty battlements. “One of those griffons that the Wardens of old used to ride would come in handy.”

Flora did not know exactly what a griffon looked like, but she understood what purpose they had fulfilled. Duncan had described them one rainy evening before she had begun to exhale the taint. He often prolonged the time that Flora spent beneath his canvas roof, and she had made no protest. She realised that their commander had now been dead for a month: a hard lump formed in her throat, as though a fishbone had stuck fast. 

Flora then felt a sympathetic nudge from Compassion; steering her attention back to the present more gently than her general would have done. A moment later, she recalled a comment made by the bann the previous night. 

“Is there - a tunnel?” she asked, hoping that she had not dreamt the remark. “A way in that…. ain’t _ obvious?” _

Alistair startled, as though someone had tapped unexpectedly on his shoulder. He had been so disquieted by Isolde’s emergence and Teagan’s subsequent departure that the existence of said tunnel had temporarily slipped his mind.

“Of course,” he said, straightening. “The low passage. It was created to bring in food and supplies if the castle was under siege. It runs from the dungeon, deep in the bedrock- ”

He pointed a finger at the foundation of the looming fortress, then drew a meandering line through the air: tracing a route through the bowels of the jutting promontory. After a moment of hesitation - brow furrowed, Alistair retrieved the memory - his finger ended its course at the old windmill a quarter-mile below. 

“I’m sure it comes out there,” he said, almost to himself. “I never tried it - not that fond of _ small spaces _ \- but some of the other lads explored it for a wager once.” 

Flora eyed the lofty, broad-shouldered bulk of her brother-warden; beside him, the men-at-arms looked like unfinished youths. She could understand his apprehension. 

“If you get stuck, I’ll break you out,” she offered, hoping that this might alleviate his concern.

Alistair responded with a taut smile, inhaling a deep and grounding breath. 

“Thanks.”

Turning back on the pair of locked gates, the party retraced their steps through the drizzle. The ruddy clay had liquefied underfoot: soon, their boots were stained crimson up to the ankle. Muffled curses emerged as an elbow or shoulder was grabbed to save another from a fall. Below them, the surface of Lake Calenhad was pitted like the skin of an orange.

The old mill stood on a flat stretch of earth halfway between the castle and Redcliffe town; perched atop an embankment to claim as much turbulent air as possible. It was a casualty of the dead’s incessant assaults: only two lofty sails remained intact. One hung skeletal, and the other lay mangled on the mud. The boundary wall had been knocked down; the door appeared battered, but not broken.

“Right,” said Alistair as they came to a halt, wiping damp hair from his eyes. “Who’s coming with me and Flora?”

The Rainesfere men, huddled and sullen, remained quiet. None of them wished to be the first to speak.

“WHO,” repeated Flora more loudly, assuming that the patter of rain had drowned out her brother-warden’s question. “Is coming with us?”

The pause elongated into a defined silence. The man darted glances at her and then looked down swiftly, unwilling to face her pale stare. Eventually, one ventured a hesitant response; though it was directed to his muddied boots rather than to the exquisite aloofness of her face.

“You two are Wardens. You’re… you’re better equipped to deal with _ whatever’s _ in that castle.” 

“Not really, because there aren’t _ Darkspawn _ in there,” retorted Alistair, with a flash of anger. “But your liege lord is. Call yourself loyal servants? You should take off your badges. I could take them off for you- ”

He was interrupted by a pat to his elbow; Flora had reached out a hand. 

“We don’t need ‘em,” she said, her eyes fixed beyond the huddle of frightened men. “Look! Ooh, I hope he fits in the tunnel.”

The Qunari was approaching: his face impassive and his stare unblinking. Over the course of the night Sten had obtained a more efficient weapon than the sharpened fence-post: a dwarven-made axe was strapped to the expanse of his back. He offered no explanation for his absence, nor for why he had decided to join them. 

“We’re breaking into the castle,” Flora said, dispensing with pleasantries like a true northerner. “Like _ robbers _. Are you coming?” 

Sten seemed to appreciate her lack of social niceties. He responded with a low sound in the back of his throat that she interpreted as assent. 

“It’s a fine state of affairs,” commented Alistair acerbically, who had not forgiven the men their disloyalty. “When a Qunari does more to help a Fereldan than his own countryfolk.”

The clouds drew close overhead: layer upon rainsoaked layer casting a dense shadow on the land below. So much moisture hung in the air that each inhalation felt wet. Spurred on by guilt, or by Maric’s face spun back into youthfulness, three men out of the six volunteered to accompany the Wardens into the tunnel. 

While those who had declined to come set out shamefaced on the return path, the small party made their way to the foot of the windmill, avoiding the sail broken on the ground. The door was hanging off its hinges and Alistair gave it an impatient shove with his shoulder. It creased into pieces, revealing a shadowy stone interior. The mechanism of the mill stood motionless in the centre; the wooden shaft and millstone cobwebbed from lack of use. A heap of dusty sacks lay against one wall; a three legged chair rested on its side, as though thrown.

“They built a watermill closer to town,” offered one Rainesfere man, his voice echoing to the broken rafters. “More reliable.” 

“Let’s find the tunnel entrance,” replied Alistair, attention drawn to the pile of sacking. “It’s got to be in here somewhere.” 

They began to scour the small chamber; looking for any disturbance of stone or unevenness in the floorboards. Flora wandered to the middle of the room and eyed the shaft, which stretched up through the centre of the mill. 

_ Is there a blood mage in the castle? _

** _You’ll find out soon enough. _ **

_ My shield works against blood magic, doesn’t it? _

** _If you believe it will, yes._ **

The pile of sacking yielded only dust and irate spiders. Alistair made a hasty retreat, then glanced over his shoulder.

“Any luck?” 

The others made sounds in the negative: the circular chamber was not large and contained no hidden exits. Flora, who had been preoccupied with her spirits, also shook her head; wondering what they meant by: _ if you believe it will. _She could mend in her sleep, it came effortless and without thinking; but summoning her barrier still felt as though she were walking along a rope strung between poles. 

“I have located it.” 

This impassive remark came from the doorway, which now framed the lower two thirds of Sten’s body. The Qunari had not accompanied them inside; instead circling the exterior of the mill itself. Beneath a tapestry of moss and lichen, he had uncovered an external trapdoor at the south side of the structure, which dropped away into a shadowed recess. 

The Qunari had torn away the wings of flaking wood that hid the entrance to the tunnel. Now it awaited travellers: a dark and eager throat, a ladder swallowed within the gloom. There was no way of telling how far the ladder descended: after a few feet, it was lost in the black morass. 

** _Go on. _ **

_WHY? _ _ I’m just a mender. I stay in the back. _

** _You must be more than a mender._ **

Flora heaved a deep sigh - for the benefit of her spirits - and then slid around the Qunari, making an advance on the tunnel. Alistair, who had just dropped a chip of wood into the darkness to try and ascertain its depth, looked at her. His brow creased; faint lines scoring the flesh.

“Flora?”

“I’m going first,” she informed him, gloomily. “I’ll light your way down once I reach the bottom.”

Flora had first met Alistair three months prior, and she had come to know the subtle nuances of his face as well as anyone could. His lips pressed together; the hard line of his jaw stiffened: he did not want her to go first, but realised that he had no right to stop her.

“Be careful,” he said at last, eyes sweeping across her face. 

“Mm.” 

Unsure how best to reach the ladder, Flora opted for the less athletic and more cautious approach. Dropping to her hands and knees, she slithered herself backwards over the muddy grass and dropped a foot over the edge; groping with the tip of her boot for the rung. When her toe met wood, she tested the strength of it with the weight of a leg, then chanced her whole body.

_ If it breaks, will my shield break my fall? _

** _Possibly._ **

“Be _ careful _ , Flora,” Alistair said again, as his sister-warden began to inch downwards; the impassive _ froiduer _of her face disguising any unease. She responded with a little nod, peering gingerly over her shoulder. 

He watched her descend until the top of her head was submerged in shadow, and then Flora had vanished. There followed nothing but silence: in irrational alarm, he leaned forward and called down.

“Flo?”

“I’m breaking up all the cobwebs for you,” drifted up in muffled response. “Ooh, the spiders ain’t happy.”

Flora felt as though she were descending into a well. At first, the surrounding walls were the same ruddy earth that stained her boots; after a minute of climbing, the earth merged into a damp, mossy stone. She thought that it might be granite - it reminded her of the cliffs that lined the northern coast. Eventually, her boot made crunching contact with the dirt.

Letting go of the ladder, Flora turned around and held up a hand as one would lift a torch. Her palm sang with golden light, illuminating the hollowed stone. To the north stretched a dark maw; she presumed this led through the belly of tbe promontory and into the foundation of the castle. The walls were mottled with lichen; dappled in whitish grey. She could feel the damp like a clammy palm laid on the back of her neck. Beneath her feet - now broken - lay an assortment of calcified shards.

_ BONES! WHOSE?! _

** _Call yourself a mender? Look closely._ **

Flora realised that the skeletal remains were too small to belong to either human or elf; they were fragile and no larger than a handspan.

_ Oh. Animal bones. _

“... Flora?” 

Flora looked up towards the muffled call: the sky was a pale smudge the size of her thumbnail.

“Come down,” she replied, listening to the ends of her words bounce between the walls. “I’ll light your way.” 

The distant grey patch overhead was blotted out as her brother-warden manoeuvred himself gingerly onto the ladder. 

“Maker’s Breath,” he observed, distant and muffled. “It’s a long way down. Hope the ladder holds out.”

“I’ll fix your broken legs if you fall.” 

“Great.” 

As Alistair began to descend, he noticed tendrils of shimmering light rising up around him; sinuous filaments that cast a gold flux on the stone. Flora, having realised that the light from her palms was too localised to be of use to her brother-warden, was puffing out lungfuls of her mending magic. Lighter than air, the unused strands of energy floated up alongside the ladder. 

Fascinated at how the calluses on his knuckles were healing before his eyes, the eventual jolt of earth beneath his boot took Alistair by surprise. He released the ladder and stepped into the puddle of light beneath his sister-warden’s dangling hand. Flora looked up at him, pink in the face and breathless from the repeated exhalation.

Far above, they could hear the distant sound of arguing about who was to go next. While the Rainesfere men debated amongst themselves; the Qunari began to descend. He did so with speed and precision, the muscled bulk moving fluidly. The ladder protested his weight and Sten made no reaction; he did not quicken or slow his pace, but continued on with the same grim purpose. 

Alistair returned his gaze to Flora, who had an assortment of torn cobwebs trailing from her hair. He reached out and used the back of his glove to brush each one lightly away, careful not to snag the mail against the loose strands. She smiled distractedly at him, still focused on coaxing the strands of light upwards. He felt heat flare in his belly like a new-fired forge. 

Sten landed hard with one knee and a palm on the earth; he had thrust himself away from the ladder and dropped the last few metres. Checking that the axe still hung in place on his back, he rose to his feet, ignoring the astonished stares of the two young Wardens. Flora had almost choked on her own magic from the shock of a seven-foot Qunari landing an arm’s length away.

As the reluctant Rainesfere men made their way in turn down the ladder, those below prepared to enter the inky hollow of the tunnel. Sconces were bolted to the wall at regular intervals, but they held only cobwebs and dust. The floor of the passage sloped up at a gradual gradient; a thin trickle of water followed the line of the wall. 

“How far is it to the castle?” asked Flora, gloomily realising that she would once again need to lead the way. 

Alistair squinted into the darkness: it was black as pitch, the echo of their voices lost in the distance. 

“I assume it’s the length of the spur,” he said, summoning the image of the promontory that connected castle bedrock to the mainland. “A quarter-mile, maybe. Looks further though, doesn’t it?”

“Mm. Is the castle haunted?” 

Flora felt that it was important to clarify this before she led them into the shadowy passage. Alistair shot her a glance from the tail of his eye, then half-laughed. 

“The only everlasting presence in Redcliffe Castle is Lady Isolde’s scowl,” he replied, lightly. “You really don’t like ghosts, do you? Don’t you talk to them in the Fade?”

Flora shot him a vaguely appalled look: _ spirits _ and _ ghosts _were not the same thing! Before she could explain, the Qunari let out a low rumble of impatience in the depths of his throat.

“Let us _ go. _The remainder can follow.” 

_ I don’t like going first. _

** _Few do. _ **

_ I’m meant to stay in the back. I don’t want to be the leader. _

Flora felt an exasperated sigh echo within the hollow of her skull. Grudgingly, she bypassed Alistair and stepped into the mouth of the tunnel, holding up her hand like a torch. Light from her palm shone in iridescent rays; splintering against the walls and pooling beneath her boots. A ruddy seam ran through the stone like a vein. 

** _What are you waiting for? _ **

Not wanting another lecture, Flora set off, splashing through an array of shallow puddles. She heard Alistair and Sten move to follow her; the former bracing himself before venturing into the narrow passage. The ceiling of the tunnel was decorated with fingers of calcified rock; marking where mineral-infused water had dripped over decades. Fortunately, there were a few inches of headroom for the lofty Alistair - the Qunari needed to proceed with hunched shoulders. 

The ground beneath her feet sloped upwards at a subtle angle; Flora felt her cheeks warming and the muscle in her calves begin to burn. It was cold in the tunnel and goosebumps mottled the skin of her forearms. She was grateful that she was clad in her trusty sack, and not the flimsy priestess robe that Leliana would undoubtedly have tried to coax her into. 

She could hear Alistair behind her; compensating for not being in his usual position at the front by almost walking on her heels. His breathing was measured and even, despite bearing the weight of chainmail, sword and shield.

_ Alistair is in much better physical condition. than me, _ Flora observed, plodding grimly onwards. _ I thought I was still fit because I’m small. _

** _Some would say ‘small’. Others: scrawny. _ **

_ Ooh! Am I? It’s because I haven’t had to haul in lobster pots and drag boats up the beach in four years. The Circle’s made me soft! _

A prodding finger confirmed it: although she was little in dimension, the flat plane of her belly was soft and lacked any discernible definition. Flora, deciding that she would bind herself with muscle like Leliana, set off up the slope with determination and a newly rapid pace.

“Did you see a ghost?” enquired Alistair drily from behind, hastening his stride with ease to match. 

“No,” she replied, then shot him an alarmed look over her shoulder. “Why, did you see one?!” 

He laughed and the sound reverberated between the leaning walls. 

“No. I’m curious about why you’re _ jogging _.” 

“Oh. I’m building musc-”

But while Flora’s attention was focused behind her, the gleam from her fingers also swung towards the rear. This resulted in her colliding with a rocky outcrop: the passage narrowing as the texture and tone of the walls changed. Further inspection showed that the stone was cut into manmade parts: they had passed from the promontory into the foundations of Redcliffe Castle. The temperature of the air shifted; the earthen clamminess mingled with the chill of a dungeon. 

Flora could taste a mustiness on her tongue, as though she had licked the skin of a shrivelled apple. She angled her hand so that the light from her palm shone down the constricted hallway. It would be an uncomfortable fit for her brother-warden, even more so for the Qunari. She remembered what Alistair had mentioned on the surface about _ tight spaces; _when she glanced at him, his mouth was a taut and slender line. The passage angled abruptly after a dozen yards: she could not see what lay beyond.

“I think we’re almost there,” the young warrior said, the joviality gone from his tone. “Flora- ”

Flora guessed that he was about to volunteer to take the lead. She hesitated for a moment - _ a mender’s position was in the rear! - _then, with an air of resignation, turned her back on him and ventured into the passage. There came a ripple of approval from her general; it felt like the smoothing of a palm over rumpled silk. 

Standing at three inches over five foot - although her lopsided bun added some artificial height - and slight in build, Flora had little difficulty within the narrow space. Behind her, Alistair swore as he knocked his head against the ceiling; his shield colliding with the wall. Clay dust and mud fell to the ground in a shower as the Qunari compressed himself with a low growl. The three Rainesfere men followed; they had grown quieter with each step towards the castle.

“Maker’s Breath - if I get stuck down here, Flo, will you bring me food?” 

“Mm,” she replied, her palm lighting the sharp bend in the way ahead. “I’ll fish you up some dinner from the lake. Ooh, it ain’t narrow any more!” 

As the passage angled to the right, it opened up once again: the stone hollowed out to accommodate an embedded door flanked by empty sconces. A dessicated barrel rested on its side nearby. The door itself had neither handle nor keyhole; nor any visible means of yielding. Flora’s arm was throbbing from the prolonged elevation: she hoped that there were torches on the far side. 

Alistair, dust adding a sallow cast to his hair, advanced towards the door. He pressed his gloved palm against the wood and gave it a tentative shove: it was shut fast.

“Shall we… knock?” he asked after a moment, only half-joking.

Flora gave an unhelpful shrug, biting at the fresh growth of thumbnail. 

“Dunno. Ain’t the castle full of dead things?” 

He grimaced at her, dropping an instinctive hand to his belt to check that the sword still weighted the sheath. 

“Maybe. We have to get in someh- ”

Alistair only just managed to step back in time: impatient with their youthful indecision, the Qunari had taken matters into his own hands. A cart-weight of muscled bulk made brute contact with the door, which splintered like a child’s toy. Shards of wood lay strewn across the stone; the flicker of firelight could be seen beyond. The resulting crash echoed within the hollow bastion of the castle dungeon like the roll of a war drum. 

“Well,” said Alistair eventually, while Flora looked on open-mouthed. “So much for our stealthy arrival.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this rewrite, I wanted to emphasise things about Flora: first, that she’s not very confident with her shield and seeks constant reassurance from her spirits about its potency, and second that she’s a bit of a wimp - she’s not very brave, she hates being in fights and just wants to stay behind the lines and mend! I think this will lead to a better character arc for her as she’s thrust into a leadership position. 
> 
> In other news, spent about six hundred years wrapping up the baby’s presents for her first birthday next week! In a stroke of genius that’s deeply unlike me, I’ve ordered a huge roll of brown packing paper that I’ve used with pink ribbon to wrap her gifts (recyclable, and better for the environment!!) and will also be able to use the rest to wrap up our stuff when we move! Multi tasking!!


	57. A Familiar Face

The echoing tail of the Qunari’s assault faded, absorbed by the castle bedrock. Only a few fragments of the shattered door now remained in place; broken shards lay strewn across the tiles. The corridor beyond was outlined by the wooden frame: it extended in a straight line, wide and well-lit with torches. Barred doors were spaced at regular intervals, and the only sign of disturbance was a small, overturned table at the far end. Relieved that her services as a living light-source were no longer required, Flora lowered her aching arm. 

“This is the dungeon,” Alistair said under his breath, his hand dropping instinctively to the hilt of his sword. “I used to bring ale to the gaolers here for a copper. Each of those doors leads to a cell. The far end - well, round the corner is a stair that leads out into the courtyard.” 

The Qunari let out a low noise of acknowledgement: despite the brute force he had just displayed, he generally preferred to take an informed approach. After all, he had been leading troops for the duration of Flora’s short life; and a reckless commander was soon relieved of his post, either through demotion or death. 

Flora stepped to the side, peering past the broad expanse of Qunari back. She was not overly impressed with her first view of a castle interior. Her father had once travelled to Highever - the town of many towers. He had described a market hall with windows made from glass somehow stained in rainbow hues; the doors hewn from wood so dark and glossy that it could have been tar. This was the benchmark for extravagance in Flora’s mind and so far, Redcliffe Castle did not meet the standard. 

“This is where the arl lives?” she asked dubiously, looking at the grubby flagstones and the unpainted walls. “It ain’t what I was expecting.” 

Despite the circumstances Alistair hid a smile, glancing back at his sister-warden as her lip curled. 

“The arl lives in the upper part of the castle,” he explained, aware of the narrow breadth of her experience. “Though I wouldn’t put it past Isolde to lock him up down here for minor infractions.”

“Hm!”

Flora, curious to see more of the castle interior, extracted herself through the broken teeth of the door and stepped into the dungeon. The passage was damp and each inhalation tasted of mildew; the tail of her footsteps echoed between the narrow walls. There was a steady  _ drip-drip  _ from one corner, a puddle crept across the flagstones. 

** _Caution_ ** _ . _

The light at the far end of the corridor shifted. A shadow slid round the corner, elongated and strange in shape. A moment later a hunched figure followed; propelled by a stilted, irregular gait. A broom swept in a scything motion, thin skeins of dust rising. 

At their distance, it could plausibly have been some old retainer, stricken with gout and consigned to a limp. The Qunari shifted into readiness; Alistair put a hand to his sword and withdrew it several singing inches. 

“Flora,” he said in a low voice, his eyes fixed on the shambling figure. “Get behind me.”

Flora did not need to be asked twice: there was no purpose in shielding from the front. She reversed several steps, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Although the hunched man seemed harmless enough, the more visceral parts of her - the flesh beneath the skin, the spongy parts of the bone - were prickling with alarm; sensing that something was  _ not quite normal. _

As Flora edged back she ran into Alistair’s outstretched hand, and he hauled her behind him without ceremony. The next moment his sword rang as it was fully unsheathed: the figure had stepped into a puddle of torchlight. In an instant the ghastly features were illuminated: the desiccated skin, the ribcage beneath the tattered livery, the swollen tongue visible through a gap in the cheek. An eyeless head turned towards the sigh of metal; the broom fell to the flagstones. The rest of the body swung after the head, and it began a loping charge towards them. Alistair took a step forward, sword raised. Flora, alarmed that the castle did indeed seem to be full of ‘dead things’ lifted a hand to summon her shield. Behind her, she heard an exclamation from the Rainesfere soldiers - they had caught up just in time to witness the assault. 

Before either one could turn preparation into action; the Qunari interceded. The ax propelled itself through the air, a spinning of blurred steel, and embedded itself in the centre of the creature’s head. The dead man took three more steps before crumpling into a heap like a pile of swept leaves. 

“Huh,” observed Alistair, wondering if he should point out that the Qunari had now separated himself from his weapon. “You might want - ”

The young warrior did not have the chance to finish his sentence before they were ambushed on both sides. With broken manacles still trailing from ruined limbs, the dead prisoners erupted from their cells; crashing through the doors with a strength they had never possessed while alive. A thin whistle of escaping air slid from their tattered throats as they contorted their mouths in voiceless rage. One Rainesfere soldier blocked a blow with his shield, then retreated back to the safety of the passage. 

Alistair seemed to be the focus of their attack: three launched themselves at him, hands outstretched. He thrust his shield into the face of one with such force that it splintered; simultaneously dragging his sword across the midriff of another. When the spilling guts did not slow its assault he tugged the blade upward in a ragged diagonal, opening the carcass like a butcher. The sword stuck fast in the bone, he abandoned it and lifted his shield instead. With Flora’s barrier clinging to him like a diaphanous gauze, he was free to use his own as a secondary weapon. The tiles underfoot grew wet with sticky clots of blackish red; blood that had sat in coagulated clumps within lifeless veins.

Sten was not impeded by the absence of his ax: he tore a splintering section from the nearest broken door and repurposed it. One dead prisoner, with skin the faint purplish hue of an old bruise, was lifted several feet in the air by the force of the Qunari’s impaling thrust. The twice-dead body was shaken free and the spear became a club: another corpse crumpled beneath an impersonal bludgeoning. Amplified by the hollow stone, the melee became a cacophony.

Alistair, breathing hard and hot-blooded, twisted to meet the last of his assailants. Dropping his own shield - he was still covered by Flora’s gleaming mesh - he used the ample height and mass of his body to crush the creature against the wall. There came an eggshell crunch as a skull caved in: pulverised between steel and stone. 

Flora, one hand outstretched toward her brother-warden, took a thoughtless step backwards. Her boot made contact with a puddle of something slick and dark; she felt her foot slide as though on ice and then she was flat on her back, the air knocked out of her. Instantly the shield around Alistair broke apart, the golden filaments melting into the damp air. Since all three of his assailants were now incapacitated, he did not think twice about its vanishing. He glanced over his shoulder, then swore and lunged to retrieve his sword.

Before he could wrench it from the first corpse’s spine, Flora had gulped down a mouthful of air: shallow and panicky, but sufficient. The corpse that had charged into her was tossed to the ceiling like a cloth doll, spun away by the billowing expansion of her shield. As it fell, it met Alistair’s sword; bloodied point thrust upwards. The young warrior did not flinch as the deadweight of the corpse slid down the blade to the hilt. Measuredly he lowered his sword to let the body slither free, then strode to his sister-warden’s side. 

Flora, sitting on the bloodied flagstones, hung her head. It had barely been a full day since her spirits had instructed her to  _ pay heed to her surroundings,  _ and now she had slipped over unceremoniously on a wet tile in the middle of combat. Her general had not even bothered to berate her verbally, letting a sour tide of disapproval sweep over her instead. 

“Are you alright?” 

Alistair - unable to crouch in the full complement of his armour - was leaning towards her, his eyes scouring her for injury. She was dishevelled but unscathed: the makeshift sackcloth tunic had prevented clawed fingers from finding purchase in her skin. 

“Mm,” Flora replied gloomily, not wanting to get up. “I _ knew  _ I weren’t meant to be in battles.”

He looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“I ain’t good at it,” she said with northern bluntness, feeling her stomach sink as though it were anchored. 

_ I was meant to be in… in the infirmary, not in the field. I’m a mender, not a soldier. _

This roused her general:  ** _Don’t sulk. _ **

_ But I’m not ready for this. All this - this fighting.  _

Alistair hesitated: unsure what to say. He had been about to say that their commander had recognised her potential in combat, but this would not ring true. Instead he had kept her under his eye - quite literally, since the terrace that housed the infirmary rested just below the Warden camp. Alistair wondered briefly if he should remind her that Duncan’s prudence was not born from his belief that she was inept, but for more private reasons. 

“Flora,” he said, then found that he did not want to remind her of their dead commander’s predilection. 

Some distance away, the Qunari could not believe his ears. 

“Let us go,” he snapped, retrieving his thrown ax from a skull split like a cracked egg. “Discuss your incompetence later.” 

“Flora?” 

It was fortunate that Flora was still sitting on the flagstones, or else the wavering voice would have stolen her balance. It crept from the corner cell, sliding beneath the sole prison door that remained intact. Astonished, she swivelled and stared towards the barred wood; her mouth opening in a round  _ O  _ of surprise. The voice was brittle, like a moth-eaten cloth, but she recognised the bare bones of an accent she knew. She had heard her name spoken in such a way for years, usually with the suffix:  _ “- wake up, class is over.”  _

In recent times, the voice had taken on more sinister associations. Alistair, who had taken several moments to place it, inhaled a sharp, shocked breath. He had been about to house his sword in its sheath: now, he kept it drawn. His gaze had lost the softness it held when looking down at his sister-warden: his eyes were narrowed and keen as a hawk. 

“... Flora? Is that you?”

Flora rose to her feet slowly, a half-dozen questions buzzing around her skull like trapped bees.

“Jowan?” she replied, and the name felt oddly foreign on her lips. “Is that  _ you?” _

There was a long pause, and they could hear the sound of a ragged inhalation. The last time that Jowan, Flora and Alistair had come face-to-face was within the Circle Tower. The young man had revealed himself as a student of blood magic, knife in hand and the white parts of his eyes stained in oily crimson. The amateur maleficar had opened a vein and flaunted the raw potency of blood magic before them; mortally wounding a Tranquil before escaping Kinloch Hold. 

Alistair’s face was hard as marble, the sword now raised in his hand. The point was angled towards the cell door, unwavering as an accusing finger. The Qunari kept his distance, though his eyes were keen. From the sound of it, one of the Rainesfere men had fled back down the passage; the other two stood motionless. 

** _Speak with the maleficar. Before your friend strikes him down. See what you can learn. _ **

Flora dutifully scrambled to her feet, wiping her grubby hands on the torn sacking. She advanced past Alistair, avoiding the extended blade; then stood on her toes at the cell door. It was noticeably more fortified, bound with iron and housing a small barred opening. The grate was a foot above Flora’s head even when she balanced on the balls of her feet. Alistair, after a moment’s hesitation, leaned his sword against the wall. He set his hands on her waist and lifted her easily into the air, muttering a low  _ be careful  _ against her back. 

Flora, thus elevated, was able to peer into the shadowed recess beyond the bars. The cell was more cramped than the rest; it contained only a bucket, a stained pallet mattress, and a man standing in the grubby straw. He turned his face up to the small square of light and she drew in a sharp breath. Although she had recognised the voice, it was still startling to see the person it belonged to: a man that she had assumed she would never see again. 

Yet the torchlight from the corridor illuminated features that seemed to have aged a quarter-century. The round, doughy moon face had caved in to the bone; the cheeks sunken as if someone had chiselled out the meat. The eyes were ringed with exhaustion, and a sickly pallor clung to the skin. It was as if he had been eroded over the years by some chronic wasting condition, except that Flora had last seen him two months prior in the flush of youthful health. 

“Jowan,” she observed, astonished. “You look awful.” 

The gaunt creature below let out a sound that might have been a laugh, but there was no humour in it. 

“What a surprise,” interjected Alistair, dryly. “Blood magic not good for the health, eh?  _ Who would have thought.” _

Flora wrapped her fingers around the bars, trusting that her burly brother-warden could keep her lifted for as long as was necessary. Her nails shone as if burnished, casting warmth onto the ghastly face below her. It took her several moment to assemble the pieces of her realisation together - she was not the swiftest thinker.

_ The dead smell like blood.  _

_ There’s blood magic in the castle. _ _ _

_ Jowan is here, and he’s a blood mage. _

“YOU,” she said after a moment, drawing in a shocked inhalation. “This is  _ your  _ fault?!” 

Flora could not equate the lazy, affable young man she had once known at the Circle with a villain who had inflicted suffering and death on an entire town. Alistair, however, seemed more than ready to mete out justice. Setting Flora down and to the side he thrust his face close to the bars; unlike her, he needed no elevation.

“I should break down this door and kill you where you stand,” he said, low and dangerous. “You son of a- ”

He was halted by Flora’s hand on his elbow; the slight pressure of her fingers against the skin. It was as though she had turned him bodily to her, her hands on his elbows and her eyes entreating: the irises pale as rainwater. The last part of Alistair’s threat shrivelled in his throat: she might as well have put her fingers over his mouth. 

No longer having the height required to look through the bars, Flora instead put her mouth to the keyhole.

“All that you know,” she said, feeling the tense vibrato of her brother-warden’s anger. “Tell us.” 

There was a pause and Flora could hear the prisoner heave a heavy sigh; one that rose from the dirty soles of his feet. She could taste him on her tongue, beyond the odour of an unwashed body, there was an acrid, gory tang that rolled from his flesh in waves. Flora knew the scent of blood well, rich, full-bodied and metal; she had always associated such a taste with life and vitality. The stench that rolled from Jowan was a foul inverse of the scent she knew: a cloying, corrupted variant.

“It’s a long story.” 

“Then give us the short version,” retorted Alistair, his fingers skating over the hilt of his blade. 

Flora put her eye to the keyhole but could see little. She heard the man exhale another long, tremulous sigh.

“I accept responsibility for Arl Eamon’s illness. But the raising of the dead - that’s not me!” His voice rose several pitches in protest.

Alistair and Flora looked at one another in the same moment, sporting expressions of identical astonishment. They had both expected to hear a confession from the maleficar about the walking corpses and the nightly assaults; the sick arl had been a secondary and unrelated concern. 

“You’re -  _ you’re  _ the cause of the arl’s illness?” Alistair demanded, pupils shrunk in disbelief. “But - but  _ why? Wait,  _ no- ” he shook himself in an attempt to stay focused. “Later. What’s causing the attacks, if it’s not you?” 

There was another long pause. Flora could hear the Qunari coming to a halt nearby: for such a vast creature, he could be remarkably stealthy in his movements. The two Rainesfere men that remained shuffled nervously, their expressions taut and fearful. 

“The arlessa took me in as a tutor for her son,” Jowan said, so soft that Flora had to return her ear to the keyhole. “She discovered that he had some magic, and wanted him to learn how to… how to conceal it.”

“Connor Guerrin is a  _ mage?!”  _ Alistair said loudly, his mind racing faster than his mouth. “Maker’s Breath. There’s no magic in Eamon’s family, it must have come from the arlessa’s line. So - wait.” 

His voice changed to accompany the odd twist to his mouth. 

“You’re not saying that - that  _ Connor  _ caused all this.”

The young warrior’s sweeping arm encompassed the half-dozen corpses strewn across the corridor, and beyond, to the assailed town below, the daily pyres of the slain. Jowan had no way of seeing his gesture, but guessed close enough.

“I - yes.” 

“But he’s just a little boy. A  _ child.  _ Flora- ” 

The Rainesfere soldiers exchanged a bewildered glance, Alistair turned to his sister-warden, who was biting her thumbnail and frowning. 

“Flora, can a mage child be powerful enough to cause… to cause all this cause?”

Flora, unhelpfully, gave a shrug. “Dunno,” she then added for good measure. “Maybe.” 

** _If he was… _ **

“If he was- ”

_ “Possessed.”  _

The grim confirmation filtered through the door. Alistair stepped back as though he had taken a blow, blinking rapidly.

“Shit.  _ Shit.”  _

Flora bit down hard on her thumb and felt a sharp sting. Blood welled beneath the nail; a bright bead of crimson. She put it in her mouth, feeling a faint prickling as it began to heal. Due to the strange alchemy of her body, the petty injuries of childhood - splintered fingers and scraped knees - had never lasted more than a few heartbeats. She had never known what it was like to live with pain; to feel an ache deep in the bone. 

_ Is the arl’s son possessed?  _

** _Yes. _ **

_ By a demon?  _

** _Clearly. _ **

Flora no longer questioned why her spirits chose to keep some information hidden; allowing her to discover it for herself. She sometimes wondered how much they knew - if the future was as illuminated for them as the past - but if she thought about it too much, her head throbbed with confusion.

Alistair let the bare inches of his sword slide back into the sheath. He turned to lean against the door, staring unseeing at the opposite wall. As one who had been trained for a decade by the Templars, he knew all too well the consequences of possession. He drew in a deep breath, but the inhalation did nothing to calm his racing heart. 

“He’s just a child, Flora. What are we going to do?”

Flora removed her mended thumb from her mouth, brow furrowed. The topic of possession rose frequently in the Circle: everyone seemed to know someone, who knew someone  _ else _ who had fallen prey to the demons. In reality most mages passed their Harrowing; though the occasional few did not return, or came back as placid, featureless Tranquil. 

_ Do you know the demon responsible?  _ Flora ventured tentatively. Alistair looked sideways at her, aware that she was now conversing with her spirits. 

** _Yes. _ **

_ Could you… kill it?  _

** _With ease. _ **

She felt a small flutter of hope deep in her belly, but then again she knew her general too well to take their word at face value.

_ But…?  _

** _It would kill the vessel too. _ **

Flora abandoned the questioning. She looked to her brother-warden, who had pushed free of the wall and was attempting to compose himself, gloved hands balled. The Qunari waited motionless nearby, a hulking silhouette with ax readied; the two Rainesfere soldiers had taken on an unhealthy hue. 

Before either could speak a deafening crash came from somewhere overhead, shaking the castle to its basalt bones. Dust fell in clumps from the ceiling; spiderwebs tore free from their rafters. Moments later the muffled sound of collapsing earth echoed from the tunnel entrance. They would now be leaving via the front door, or not at all. 

Flora took an anchoring breath, feeling the weight of her boots press down on the bloodied flagstones. The northerner in her recoiled at indecision: flailing in uncertainty was a waste of daylight hours. 

“Let’s go and see what’s happening,” she said, when no one else seemed as though they would be speaking. “And then we can make a plan.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we’re in Redcliffe Castle, finally! And here’s Jowan! Flora and co haven’t learnt the full situation yet, but all that’s to come. She’s not feeling great about her composure in a fight, but she’ll get a chance to prove herself wrong soon! And Alistair knows full well that the ‘only’ cure for possession is death - or is it???!
> 
> Anyway, it’s a literal madhouse here - we’re leaving in exactly three weeks to move back to Wales! Now that I’m packing up my life I realise that all I own are books and clothes. Haha! I packed up my Loeb library today - wonder what the removals people will think about my boxes labelled Greek Loebs and Roman Loebs? They’ll think: what a weirdo XD


	58. The Abominable Child

The final echoes of the crash reverberated throughout the walls of the prison. It was as though one of Flora’s Highever giants had tripped and landed on the great hall overhead. The dislodged dust took some time to settle; it not only cascaded from the ceiling, but plumed from cracks in the masonry. The powdery grit settled on the cadavers that lay strewn across the tiles, as if the cremation process had already begun.

A despondent Flora stifled a sneeze in her elbow. A sourness had settled in the pit of her stomach like a gulp of curdled milk: the cause of all Redcliffe’s troubles was a  _ demon _ . She had a sinking feeling that the others might expect her to have some expertise on the matter - after all, she was the  _ mage.  _ Yet Flora’s spirits had always shielded her from the Fade’s more sinister residents; and she had no experience whatsoever with  _ abominations  _ in the waking world. 

_ He’s just a little boy. Can’t you do anything to help?  _

** _You rejected the most obvious solution. _ **

_ Mm, we ain’t killing a child.  _

Alistair, teeth clenched in the vice-like grip of his jaw, struck the cell door with the flat of his blade. The prisoner flinched like a beaten Mabari, hands rising protectively to his sunken face.

“We’ll be back for you,” the young warrior said ominously, letting the full authority of his three inches and six feet frame loom through the wood.“I want to know  _ exactly _ what you’ve done to the arl.” 

The two Wardens set off up the corridor , avoiding the eviscerated remains of the ambush. The Qunari fell into step just behind them, quiet and alert. As they passed the first corpse, he retrieved the axe that had cleaved the cadaverous face in two. There had been no more noise from the main part of the castle after the initial crash, but the tomblike silence in what ought to have been a bustling settlement was even more disturbing. 

The corridor ended in an abrupt right turn and an ajar door; beyond which, a wedge of spiral steps were visible. The stair was cast in shadow - the wall-torches had been left to grow dust - but some light filtered down in papery streams from above. 

“We should have brought Leliana with us,” Alistair said, peering cautiously up the spiral stair. “We could use her bow. What did she say she was doing this morning?”

“Um.” His sister-warden scoured her memory for the particulars of their brief conversation. “I think she said she was going to the nearby villages to recruit more help for tonight.”

Flora wondered if he wished Leliana was at his back in her place. All she had done was provide illumination, and some minor shielding - roles that could be done equally well by a torch and Alistair’s own steel bulwark. 

“Alistair,” she said, following him up into the narrow confines of the staircase. 

“Hm?” He had his sword drawn, advancing cautiously around the curved stone. The steps were polished from frequent use, grooves worn in their centres to mark the passage of feet. 

“Are you sure there won’t be any more fighting after - after today?”

Flora lowered her voice to a hiss halfway through the question, alarmed at how her words were amplified by the stairwell’s acoustics. They had now ascended through six rotations of the winding stair. The pale, probing fingers of sun gradually merged into a more cohesive daylight; the wall broken by slitted windows. After more than an hour underground, the rawness of the sky seemed unfamiliar. 

Three steps ahead, Alistair was focused on the winding stair. He was almost grateful that he had to focus on potential ambush instead of the return to familiar surroundings. His departure from Redcliffe Castle had been abrupt; his parting from the arl not pleasant. 

“What? Oh. Probably not. Unless the teyrn sends more assassins after us.” 

Flora brooded over this sinister possibility as the stair ended in a small antechamber, empty except for a stern stone bust on a mid-height plinth, and a topped chair. A bar of pale sunlight underlined a door on the far side. Alistair hesitated for a moment with his gloved hand spread against the wood. Flora could not see his face, but she saw his shoulders lift in a deep breath. 

Then the chamber seemed to shrink as the Qunari and the pair of remaining soldiers reached the top of the stairway, crowding behind Flora. Alistair gave the door a shove and it swung open, revealing an expanding wedge of earthen courtyard. 

Even the low winter sun was startling compared to the subterranean murk; the small party paused to blink back their vision before moving on. 

Redcliffe Castle was a fortress built to withstand siege and direct assault: even the interior courtyard was surrounded by bleak and towering, featureless walls. Arrow slits and channels for pouring oil punctuated the limestone facade; the Guerrin colours hung in faded glory on the battlements overhead. The courtyard itself was empty, save for an overturned barrel and a lonely training dummy at the far end. The figure’s sackcloth torso had been gutted; it stood in a motionless pool of sawdust. 

Alistair was disconcerted: the last time he had set eyes on this courtyard, it was swarming with the bustle of domestic life. There should have been a steady flow of activity between the kitchens - the discreet archway to the south - and the great hall, which lay behind an impressive entranceway to the north. A fan of steps led up to a pair of iron-riveted doors; near which servants were accustomed to linger, exchanging idle chat while balancing trays of soiled silverware. 

The castle washing-area, supplied with lakewater pumped through the rock, bordered the kitchen. In usual times, washer-women crossed the courtyard with baskets of spilling linen, cursing at skiving stable lads and avoiding overexcited Mabari as they chased each other in tight knots. Knights clad in the distinctive Guerrin livery swaggered over the cobbles, while passing clerks rolled their eyes; aware that Redcliffe’s current power lay in its trade, not in military might. 

This was the maelstrom of castle life that Alistair remembered: the constant muddle of people, the barking of dogs and the smell of baking bread. The courtyard before him now stood barren and desolate; motionless except for the flap of wind-teased banners against the stone. 

“Where  _ is _ everyone?” he said under his breath, disconcerted by the hollow rebound of his voice. “Half the town work here.”

It had been a rhetorical question: Alistair assumed that most of the servants had taken part in the nightly assaults on their former home. The Qunari however, who believed that all questions required an answer, voiced a blunt confirmation; the young man flinched.

As Alistair stood motionless, Flora slithered between his arm and the doorframe: curious as to what the interior of a castle looked like. She was impressed with the bleak ugliness of the four unadorned walls: solid and practical, and with minimal openings to trap the heat. The keep did not reach the Circle Tower’s lofty heights, but it was far broader and sturdier than the delicate stem of Kinloch Hold. She wandered into the centre of the courtyard and turned a slow rotation, the end of her straggling braid swinging. 

Alistair had not yet reconciled the diminutive frame of his sister-warden with the formidable defences at her fingertips. He felt uneasy seeing her isolated with so many doorways on all sides: they had already been ambushed once. He strode forward, relieved when they were once again within an arm’s reach. 

“This is more what I thought a castle would look like,” observed Flora, whose experience was limited to stories and second-hand anecdotes. “Where do you think the bann is?”

Alistair glanced to the side before he spoke, his mail-wrapped finger lifting towards the pair of double doors.

“There,” he said, a ghost of the word rebounding within the lifeless courtyard. “The crash came from the great hall.” 

_ That means the dungeons are under our feet,  _ Flora thought to herself, looking down between her muddied boots. The cobblestones looked innocuous enough, but she thought it peculiar that -in usual times - people could go about their daily business while prisoners lay chained six feet below. 

When she looked up, Alistair had his sword drawn and his eyes rested expectantly on her face. 

“Ready?” he asked in a low voice, and there was an ominous weight to the word that hung like a millstone:  _ ready for whatever lies behind those doors?  _

_ A child possessed by a demon, an abomination, more reanimated corpses?  _

Flora did not think that she would ever  _ feel  _ ready to deal with any of those possibilities, but she knew that she also did not have a choice. This realisation was not prompted by her spirits, but by her own candid northern consciousness. 

_ No fisherman of the Storm Coast is ever ready to take on the Waking Sea, and yet they do so every morning.  _

“Eh,” Flora replied vaguely, meaning  _ not really.  _ She then lifted her chin and set out towards the steps as though she was striding through churning shallows. 

_ To the whale boats, to the whale boats. _

_ Should I summon my shield now?  _

** _Pointless. _ **

She heard Alistair and Sten fall into step beside her; then, some distance behind, straggled the Rainesfere soldiers. They were not cowards, but they were used to facing danger that they could block with a shield. The foul magic that poured forth nightly from the castle, and its abominable source, far exceeded the limits of their experience. 

Flora felt her boots growing heavy as she ascended the steps before the door, as if she had wandered into quicksand. There were patches of it on the shore around Herring; it was darker and denser than the grit that covered the beach. She looked down and realised that there was no tangible impediment, save for her own reluctance. 

_ Will I ever stop being scared of things?  _ the girl from the fishing village asked her spirits.

** _No. But you will learn to manage the fear._ **

This was an unusually empathetic response from her general; she was astonished.

** _And if your commander had sent you into the field more often instead of - _ **

Flora stopped listening. 

Beside her, Alistair stretched a glove towards the iron ring fixed to the door; he then hesitated. She saw the steel contour of his spaulders rise and fall as he drew in a deep breath. His gaze dropped down and to the side, and met the nonchalant composure of his sister-warden’s stare. Flora’s face was neither welcoming, nor friendly - her beauty was unapproachable and her eyes glacial in their coldness - but it had the advantage of remaining dispassionate in even the most dire of circumstance. Until very recently, this had never proved to be an advantage. 

Reassured by Flora’s unruffled stoicism, Alistair grasped the iron ring and gave it a determined shove. Fortunately, the bar within the castle interior had not been slid into place; the door opened with a groan from the hinges, and the great hall extended before them like an unrolled tapestry.

Flora’s boots were immobile once again; but this time the cause was pure astonishment. She had never seen such a vast space enclosed by walls before -  _ how could anyone build to such great heights indoors? how could a ceiling be constructed fifty feet above the floorboards?  _ and the sight stole both her breath and her momentum. The framework of the ceiling seemed as vast and intricate as the skeleton of a ship's hull; the lower half of the walls were lined with uninterrupted tapestry. Suits of armour stood guard at regular intervals; weapons of war clutched in lifeless gauntlets. Eight vast tables - each one the length of a tree trunk- were flanked by benches at each side. At the far end of the hall, a handful of sweeping steps led up to a stone platform, where a throne carved from oak stood empty. 

Flora was so astonished by the sheer scale of the great hall that when she heard a sharp intake of breath from beside her, she assumed that her companions were similarly impressed. Yet their eyes were not wandering the length and breadth of the cavernous space, but focused on the array of figures near the arl’s seat.

_ “Mother. You didn’t tell me we were expecting visitors.” _

The child’s voice, thin and unbroken, was overtaken by a twisted reverberation that came too quickly to be a true echo, an inhuman snarl moulded crudely into words. The demon’s voice could not penetrate the Veil intact; it emerged mangled and broken. Connor Guerrin stood on the empty seat of his father’s throne, his head cocked like a Mabari. His eyes were as black and glossy as the seeds of an apple. Beside him, the arlessa stood with the hunch of a condemned man at the gallows; twitching as though the creak of the rope already sounded above her head. 

On tbe table nearest to the raised platform, Teagan Guerrin was performing tricks that would impress an Antivan contortionist. Yet there was an awkwardness to each somersault; the bann’s body flailed like a doll wielded by a child. His face was white and slack, mouth fixed in a rictus grin. 

A half-formed plea to the Maker slid from the throat of one of the Rainesfere men. Immediately - although there should have been no way that the child could have heard the prayer from such a distance - the abomination let out a low rumble of anger. It sprung from the throne and landed on all fours, crouched low like a beast; head swinging from side to side. Then it slid upright in a fluid and unnatural motion, eyes focused on the arrivals.

“Connor,” whispered the arlessa, though her eyes were still anchored to her stained silk slippers. “Connor, please- ”

_ “Quiet! I want to greet our guests. Come forward.”  _

Alistair swore under his breath; Flora could see beads of sweat rising on his hairline. The Qunari shifted from foot to foot, a low rumble of disapproval sounding deep in his throat. The five of them moved in a knot, weapons in hand - save for Flora - between the columns of tables. 

Flora could taste the acrid aura of the Fade on her tongue, as though she had stood too close to a bonfire and inhaled a mouthful of smoke. She hoped that no one would look to her for guidance on what to do: she was a mage, but her spirits had always guarded her from their malevolent counterparts. 

They came to a halt at the foot of the steps and the possessed child gazed down at them; his black and shining eyes skittering from one to the other like an ant. The bann had some temporary relief from his torment as the creature’s attention was diverted: he fell to his knees and let out a soft groan, raising a hand to his head. Alistair darted a glance sideways at the dazed man, and his gauntlet clenched involuntarily on the hilt of his sword.

The arlessa spotted the small motion and let out a raw sob, extending a hand. She had lost so much weight that her wedding ring swung loose around her finger, kept in place only by the swell of her knuckle. 

“Please don’t hurt my son,” she said, each word a wound. “He - he isn’t himself.”

“That’s the understatement of the Age,” murmured Alistair tightly, though his fingers loosened their grip on the blade. 

_ “Hush, ‘Mother’,”  _ retorted the abomination, and the second word was veined with such jeering contempt that the arlessa flinched.  _ “If you don’t stop your whining, I’ll split your tongue in two; and see how you nag me then!”  _

The glassy black stare swept over the Rainesfere men, dismissing them immediately. The Qunari warranted a more studied gaze, and a childish snort. Finally the abomination’s eyes settled on the Wardens, who stood elbow to elbow. 

_ “Now, Mother - see?”  _ the child crowed, gleeful.  _ “This looks like a man who could rule. One in prime condition. A proper man.”  _

Alistair drew in a swift and sharp breath, his forehead creasing. Connor Guerrin continued on, one hand scratching at his neck.

_ “Not like my father. Scrawny and withered old fool! He should have given up his arldom to me long ago. No matter: I’ve claimed it now. Ha! My legions will swarm the land!”  _

Flora was still frightened, but she was simultaneously growing annoyed. The arlessa’s Orlesian accent was too thick for her to interpret, and although the boy was speaking in Kingstongue, she had no idea what he was talking about either. All that she saw beside the large wooden chair - she did not know it was an arl’s throne, and three Ages old - was an obstacle; a delay to their Redcliffe goal.

“You’ll be competing with the Darkspawn,” she said, with northern bluntness. “They’ve got a head start on swarming.” 

The abomination looked at her and Flora felt it’s eyes crawl from head to toe. 

_ “I’m surprised you’ve let this one into the castle, Mother,”  _ it said, with a demonic leer that defied the childish shell.  _ “I thought you banished all the beautiful girls to stop Father’s eye from- ” _

Flora recognised the moment that the demon knew her as a mage; the sentence aborted itself in the creature’s throat and it narrowed its gaze like an eagle sighting a rabbit. There followed an experimental prod at the corner of her mind - it felt like a greasy fingerprint - and then the abomination  _ recoiled  _ with such fury and shock that it flailed into the arl’s throne. Despite the slenderness of the boy’s body, the solid wooden chair clattered to the side as if knocked by a giant hand.

_ “Go away!”  _ shrieked the demon, and amused curiosity had been replaced by pure, incandescent rage.  _ “Go away, GET OUT!! Get out of my castle!” _

It was as though a hundred voices were yelling; amplified further by the cavernous acoustics of the great hall. The Rainesfere men put their hands to their ears; Teagan groaned and closed his eyes. Alistair half-drew his sword, then hesitated and looked faintly nauseated. 

Flora felt the sigh of her spirits resettling themselves in her skull. Compassion hummed in a soft atonal undertone - they rarely communicated in any form of recognisable tongue.

_ Is it angry because of me?  _ she thought doubtfully, referring to the abomination.

** _No. It felt us. It knew us. _ **

Flora looked up just as the abomination began to writhe on the spot, hands hidden in a maelstrom of violet energy. Teagan, with the jerking motion of a doll, threw himself upright and wrenched his family sword from his belt. The bann began to stagger towards the intruders; the green Guerrin irises a milky white. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot WAIT for this limbo to be over - had my last day in work and a socially distanced goodbye party last week, and now I’m just trying to tie up all loose ends, pack everything, and look after the baby - there aren’t enough hours in the day!!! Honestly packing and moving is so crap, it’s been nine years since I’ve last had to do it. I wish I could just pay someone to do it for me but I’m too much of a control freak! But anyway, a week on Sunday and we’ll be back in my beloved Wales, I’m SO excited! I literally got the Welsh for homesickness (hiraeth) tattooed on my ankle a few years ago so this is a big deal for me.
> 
> I just wanted to get this chapter out and I haven’t even proof read it or edited it, so apologies for the millions of dodgy spellings/repeated words that it probably contains lol


	59. The Abomination Attacks

The air in the great hall began to thrum like a plucked lute string; dust fell from the ceiling and the flagstones reverberated beneath their boots. The candleabras, which hung from four great iron wheels, began to sway as though they were ships amidst a storm. Corrupted energy from the Fade rippled through the cavernous space in waves. Echoes of darkness billowed against the walls,visible only from the corner of the eye, or when the head was turning.

Connor Guerrin, or the demon that possessed him, let out a sound that was a mocking replica of a human laugh; it came out like the chattering of a beast. He lifted childish hands, the black seal over his pupils glittering. The arlessa’s body canted reflexively towards her son; she was thrust back against the toppled throne as though shoved by some invisible palm. 

The bann’s face was slack and formless as he advanced towards the small party; he gripped his blade in a clumsy fist. Each limb seemed to move independent of the rest; he lurched like a drunkard, almost falling down the short flight of steps.

“Teagan,” said Alistair, reverting to the familiarity of a decade prior. “Teagan, shake it off - fight it!” 

There was a note of urgency in his tone. Flora wanted to tell him that there was little possibility of the bann being able to  _ shake off  _ a mind control charm. They were - naturally - proscribed at the Circle, but rumours of their illicit use arose from time to time. The bann turned his blank face towards the young man; who had inadvertently just made himself the focus of attack. 

As Teagan advanced, now mere metres away, there came a yell of pain and shock from behind. The blade of one Rainesfere soldier fell to the ground as his arm hung limp; struck by his white-eyed, mindless counterpart. 

Flora’s brother-warden swore under his breath. He shoved his sword back into its sheath, retrieving the shield from his shoulders. The bann made a clumsy, vicious thrust with his blade and Alistair blocked it easily, using the shield to divert the blow to one side. Flora had already gone to the aid of the battling Rainesfere men, knowing Alistair would not need assistance against a lone foe. 

Alistair then deflected a second clumsy thrust from the man he had once seen as - not quite a  _ father,  _ but perhaps an uncle. His sword remained in its sheath; he would strike no blow against the mind-controlled bann. Teagan’s lips drew back over his teeth in a grimace; he lunged like a thrown doll and collided with a wall of metal. The bann staggered back, dazed; instead of pressing the attack, Alistair lowered his shield and waited, eyes keen as steel. 

Several yards away an agitated Flora was trying to stop the mindless Rainesfere soldier from wounding his comrade, while simultaneously preventing the latter from dealing a death blow. 

“Ooh, don’t cut his legs off,” she pleaded, pressing herself against a nearby table as the pair wrestled past her. 

“The bastard tried to stab me!” The indignant knight made a flailing retort with his blade, aiming at the exposed part of his assailant’s neck. 

“He can’t help it.” Flora made a clumsy deflection, an arc of gleaming light cutting through the air. “If you just _stand_ _still_, I’ll shield you.”

“And let him chop my head off? Andraste’s arse I will!” 

Beads of sweat broke out on Flora’s hairline. She darted a glance towards Alistair, who at the same moment looked over his shoulder to her. Once reassured that the other was alright, both junior recruits returned their attention to their respective predicaments. 

Meanwhile, the Qunari had no moral quandary over the fate of the possessed child. Like Flora, Sten was a pragmatist; unlike her, he was determined to resolve the situation there and then in the most efficient manner. The cruel edge of his ax led his charge: he hurled himself bodily towards the abomination. He barely made it onto the first step before the child noticed him. A high giggle slid from Connor Guerrin’s throat, mouth twisting in contemptuous amusement. 

_ “Foolish brute! You think I am as weak as this pathetic body?” _

The abomination made a gesture and Sten recoiled as if he had collided with a wall of bedrock, the ax slicing through empty air. Connor gave a cackle of glee, the scorched eyes glittering. A half-dozen corpse-soldiers erupted into the great hall from some discreet servant’s entrance; more bone than flesh, they left bloodied footprints in their wake. 

_ “Entertain our guests!”  _ ordered the possessed child, shrill with excitement.  _ “Turn them inside out.”  _

The furious Qunari redirected his frustration towards a more accessible foe. Retrieving his axe, he did not wait for the enemy to come within range; charging at them with an incoherent roar. 

As the dead staggered between the long tables, the demon’s magic loosened its grasp on the minds of the bann and the soldier. Teagan Guerrin, knocked to the ground by Alistair’s shield, passed a gloved hand over his eyes and shook his head as though a wasp was circling. He looked exhausted, and every one of his four decades. Alistair, a natural defender, had already gone to the aid of the Rainesfere soldiers, who had been backed into the mouth of a dusty fireplace by three shambling corpses. 

Flora reached the bann as his chin dropped to his chest; hovering on the edge of unconsciousness. Glancing over her shoulder at Alistair, she saw that he had dispatched two dead already. Her kind-hearted brother-warden showed no similar gentleness in combat: he wielded his bulk and brute might with ruthless efficiency, often over-excessive in force. 

** _Now there’s a warrior. A born fighter. _ ** Naturally, Flora’s general was impressed.  ** _If only my army had been filled with men of that caliber. I could have taken the whole of southern Thedas. _ **

It was rare for the spirit to use a singular pronoun: they very rarely made reference to their mortal life. Flora, however, was preoccupied. She had gripped the limp bann beneath the arms and was hauling him with difficulty towards the protection of a table. It felt as though she were dragging a boat up a rocky shore without the aid of rope. 

_ Oof. A born fighter UNLIKE ME, you mean? _

There was no response. Puffing, Flora hefted the unconscious man several more yards, wishing fervently that he was not clad in costly (and therefore weighty) chainmail. Crouching down, she managed to wrangle him beneath one of the elongated tables. Nowhere in the great hall was  _ safe _ ; but at least the solid slab of oak would provide some protection. Leaving him slumped on his side, Flora sat back on her heels and exhaled. 

A second later a discordant crash of metal sang out at shocking proximity. Alarmed and with ears ringing, Flora spun her head to see a breadth of battle scarred steel. It was Alistair’s shield, thrust between her and the thwarted swing of a hammer. Her brother-warden had intercepted the corpse that had crept up on her; a creature which now twitched mindless on his extended blade. 

Startled, Flora looked up at him. Alistair gazed back down at her, breathing hard; lowering his sword to let the twice-dead creature slide onto the flagstones. His mouth made the shape of her name, although no sound emerged. Instead of speaking, he reached down a gauntlet to bring her up; eyes set unblinking on her face. The still astonished Flora put her hand into his glove and he drew her up and towards him. She made no attempt to extract her fingers; he did not release them. When the thin and quavering voice drifted through the hall, they turned towards it with hands clasped. 

“Mama…?” 

Connor Guerrin was rubbing his eyes with his fists: a child roused suddenly from a deep sleep. He looked around in bewilderment, his irises once more the distinctive Guerrin green. The arlessa let out a muffled cry, taking a step towards her son. Her face bore a glimmer of tentative hope.

“Mama? Am I… am I awake?” 

The boy was tearful in his confusion, his gaze darting across the dishevelled hall like a trapped rabbit. 

“My son,” breathed the lady Isolde, her fingers closing on his tattered sleeve. “Please, you must try and fight the demon! Be  _ strong _ , Connor, you are the son of an  _ arl-  _ ”

“I can’t,” the despairing child whispered, his chin dropping to his chest. “It’s too powerful. I said  _ yes  _ once and now I can’t say  _ no- ” _

The bann stirred beneath the table; roused by the sound of his nephew’s voice. 

“Help me,” pleaded the child to the array of strangers before him.  _ “Please.”  _

Alistair took an instinctive step forward; since their hands were still linked, Flora inadvertently accompanied him. 

Before they could move any closer, the boy’s face went slack and white; eyes closing as if someone had passed a finger over them. When he opened them next the irises were once more bottomless wells. The lips drew back over the teeth and the stance became animal, rage twisting the childish mouth. The arlessa let out a moan of defeat and fell back against the toppled thone, relinquishing her son yet again to the demon. 

_ “I told you,”  _ bellowed the abomination, in the strange and horrifying duality of tone.  _ “To GET OUT of my castle _ !” 

The demon’s fury contorted the boy’s slight body; his head swayed from side to side like a snake poised to strike. The five intruders - the Qunari, the pair from Rainesfere, the tall, musclebound swordsman and the redheaded mage at his side - were scattered across the great hall, many yards apart. 

_ “If you won’t GET OUT,”  _ the demon warned, visibly agitated.  _ “I’ll crush you to pulp!” _

The Rainesfere men spun around, expecting another assault from the undead. Instead, energy began to pool between the abomination’s small palms. Dark and smoking; the boy’s fingers were silhouetted by the sparking of violet energy. 

** _Prepare yourself. _ **

Flora felt Alistair’s hand slide from hers. Her brother-warden reached over his shoulder for his shield, eyes fixed on the deceptive slightness of the child. She assumed that some sort of spell was about to be launched in their direction; her heart leapt forwards in panicked acceleration.

_ WHAT? PREPARE FOR WHAT? If you know, why won’t you SAY?  _

There was no response. Then, with a groan of wood and a rush of acrid wind, the static contents of Redcliffe’s great hall rose to the rafters. Eight vast 

tables, each the length of a tree trunk; numerous benches and chairs; two dozen suits of armour and assorted weaponry; along with the other detritus of dining: all hovered in the air fifty feet over the heads of those below. It was a deadly arsenal: a single piece of Redcliffe oak could crush the bones of a man to dust, and pulverise the flesh beyond recognition. An incredulous Teagan Guerrin staggered to his feet, squinting up at the vaulted ribcage of the ceiling as though his eyes were deceiving him. 

There was nowhere in the hall to hide; no place to take shelter from the storm. One of the Rainesfere men gasped a mangled prayer; at which the demonic child sneered. 

Flora noticed that Alistair had raised his shield above her. There was little that one man’s dented bulwark could do against the incoming onslaught and yet he still braced his warrior’s frame determinedly against the stone. His eyes were no longer on the capering abomination, but resting on her face with calm resignation. Flora realised that he was convinced that they were about to die: crushed by the weight of a wood’s worth of solid Fereldan oak. 

_ “Farewell, dear guests,”  _ sang the boy, the deep wells of his eyes glittering.  _ “Though I have a feeling you won’t be faring too well in the near future.”  _

“Flora, I- ”

** _You are NOT the one who is shielded, _ ** observed Flora’s general testily.

_ “Your brains will decorate my tiles!”  _ gloated the demon, clapping sweaty palms. 

The chaos of wood and metal tangled below the rafters dropped; plates and tankards sliding from tilting tables; cobwebs torn from loosened weapons. Suits of armours broke apart into a dozen dusty pieces as they fell. The noise was indescribable: a host of invading Qunari charging through the hall could not have made a greater cacophony. 

_ In the Circle,  _ Flora thought, somewhat irrationally.  _ The other apprentices said that I didn’t have a brain. _

She stepped out from beneath the dented bulwark and lifted an arm with no coherent plan in her mind. Her shield flew  _ upwards _ like a net thrown into the sea, then billowed  _ outwards _ like the unfurling mainsail of a galleon. The barrier expanded as it ascended; anchoring to the walls in an impossibly huge net. In a heartbeat, the gilded mesh - each strand thin as a human hair - encompassed the entire vaulted ceiling, catching the falling missiles like a shoal of fish.

The great hall was silent for several drawn out heartbeats. Flora, astounded, looked up at the lustrous ceiling, and then at her outstretched hand. There was no  _ internal  _ sensation to accompany the extraordinary effulgence streaming from her fingers. Her stomach rumbled: it had been several hours since breakfast. It was the greatest single outpouring of magic she had ever achieved, and she felt nothing except for the faint urge to snack. 

_ ?!!?!!!!  _

** _Concentrate, _ ** came the irritated response.  ** _And close your mouth. _ **

“What the fuck,” said the bann from behind them, abandoning any pretence at eloquence. 

Alistair, struck into silence, looked down at his sister-warden; then up at the suspended arsenal overhead; then returned to Flora. There was a small crease of concentration between her eyebrows. The air in the hall now pulsed with a different sort of energy; reminiscent of the languid beat of a heart. Tiny gilded flecks, like salt spray from the sea, drifted from the illuminated rafters.

The possessed child let out a howl of thwarted rage, but made no attempt to try and dispel the barrier. Overcome by a childish fit of temper, it stormed from the great hall; crashing through a side door that led to the kitchens. The lady Isolde hesitated - for a moment, it seemed as though she were about to follow her son - but then she sank down to her knees, bowing her faded face like a wilting flower. 

No one spoke; though all registered the abomination’s departure. All eyes were still on the fishing net woven from a skeins of light, which hung the entire length of the great hall like some earthly constellation. It gleamed so brightly that the furniture caught above it was cast into a silhouetted tangle. The wood’s worth of weight rested easily on a trellis of gossamer thread. 

Flora, who had no idea what she was doing, instinctively lowered her hand. The net dipped - clumsily - and several large tables collided in a succession of splintering thuds. Wanting the contents of the great hall safely on the flagstones as soon as possible, she abandoned any attempt at a neat landing: letting the furniture, armour and weapons slither in a series of crashes at the far end of the hall. Only when the last bench and discombobulated suit of arms had been dumped unceremoniously onto the flagstones did she release the air held in her lungs. 

Alistair lowered his own shield, blinking. He looked at his sister-warden, whose face had returned to its enigmatic rule. 

“Flora,” he said, softly. Her pale eyes rose to settle on his, and he knew then that she was as astonished as he. After several months of sleeping twelve inches apart, he could translate her stoicism a little closer than the layperson. 

“Eh,” Flora replied, a faint line scored across her brow. 

“Have you… have you always been able to do that?” 

She paused, darting a bemused sideways glance at the tangled pile of furniture. 

“Dunno.” 

There was movement to the side: the Qunari had entered the hall once again. Sten alone had made the attempt to pursue the abominable child; he returned empty-handed, unsuccessful and with frustration set in his jaw. 

“Right.” 

The bann was making a valiant attempt to gather his senses, though he grimaced with each step he took towards them.

“Shit, I feel as though I’ve ridden a hundred miles in a day.”

With some effort, Alistair removed his eyes from his sister-warden. 

“The demon had you prancing about like a jester,” he said, not mentioning that Teagan had also - in a mind-controlled stupor - attempted to kill him. “I’m not surprised your muscles are sore.” 

Teagan Guerrin stifled a groan, passed a hand across his face and took a deep breath. He then turned his gaze to the arlessa, who was still slumped on the steps with shoulders hunched to her ears. Her fingers twisted compulsively in her silken sleeves, the fine fabric shredded by the repeated worrying. 

“Isolde and I had a brief conversation before Connor - before  _ that creature  _ \- interrupted us- ”

“He is still Connor,” pleaded Eamon’s wife, voice high and tremulous. “I beg you, Teagan! You are his  _ uncle.  _ Don’t let these - these  _ people  _ hurt him.” 

The bann closed his eyes a moment, then turned to the pair of young Warden-recruits. 

“Isolde has told me about the blood mage in the dungeon,” he said, glancing up as a crash echoed from some distant part of the castle. “She insists that he was responsible for Connor’s possession. Did you see him when you came in through the tunnel?” 

“Yes,” replied Alistair, tautly. “Jowan. He said - he  _ claimed  _ \- that Connor fell victim to the demon himself. He said that he was only responsible for poisoning the arl. On Loghain Mac Tir’s orders.”

He swallowed the anger that rose in his throat like bile, sour and acidic. The mention of the traitor general’s name unbalanced him: never before had he felt a contempt so potent, not even for his absent father.

Teagan’s eyes widened for a moment; his nostrils flared and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. A spark of white hot fury glinted in his pupil; yet like Alistair, he set aside his anger for the more immediate concern.

“Can you cure poison, lass?” This was directed to Flora, who was biting off the fresh growth of her nails. Her fingertips stung as though she had pressed them for a single instant against a boiling stew-pot. 

“It ain’t a poison like you’d think,” she said, tearing a soft piece from her smallest nail. “It’s a blood curse. You can’t mend a curse, you have to lift it.”

This response had, word for word, been given to her by her spirits. Teagan exhaled a long breath, the faded streaks in his beard caught by the candlelight. 

“If -  _ when -  _ my brother wakes, he can decide what justice to mete out to the prisoner. He  _ is _ the arl. For now- ”

The bann looked at the two Warden-recruits and their Qunari companion. 

“Any ideas?” 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I wanted to redeem Flora a bit here - she’s not exactly covered herself in glory re the combat situation since arriving in the castle, which is to be expected; as she says herself, she’s not a fighter and has barely any experience. But here we see the raw potential of her shield, which she’s only ever really used in small-scale ways before - and it takes her totally by surprise. Of course her shield is going to eventually need to protect her against the wrath of an Archdemon :P so it makes sense that it’s more potent than she realises. 
> 
> In other news, packing is so fucking boring I AM SO DONE WITH IT. All I own is clothes and books! Why do I own so many pairs of shoes???! Why does the baby have enough clothes to kit out a Primark? I should have just bought her three white babygros every month and rotated them! I’ve used all my bubble wrap to protect my library of Loebs and now I have none left for my crockery! Fuck me! Also I forgot to tell the removal people we’re in an upper floor flat so they’ll have a great time with the triple wardrobe and the full sized piano. Anyway!! Never mind!!!! In less than a week we’ll be back in the beloved motherland and I swear I’m never leaving Wales again, hahahha


	60. A Plan In Place

The abominable child made no further attempt to harass the intruders within the great hall. Instead, it made its grievances known by ransacking the eastern tower; staggered crashes resonated through the castle’s limestone bones. The great hall itself looked as though it had hosted a battle between mid-sized armies: strewn with broken furniture and scattered weaponry. A half-dozen corpses lay amidst the wreckage, each one clad in the Guerrin livery. Four of the six undead had met their end on Alistair’s blade; a sword not yet returned to the sheath.

The cause of the blade’s continued exposure was sitting on the low steps leading to the arl’s toppled throne. Jowan’s sunken and bruised frame seemed dwarfed by his robes: the bones of his emaciated shoulders jutted like knots on a tree branch. Only a few months separated this pitiful creature from a fleshy and confident young Circle apprentice; instead it seemed as though Jowan had endured two decades of hardship. 

Alistair and the two Rainesfere men had brought the mage up from the dungeon. The former curtly asserted that he remembered enough from his years with the Templars to subdue a rebellious mage. At this comment Flora shot him a curious glance; he met her gaze for a moment, then looked swiftly away.

In the meantime Teagan swiftly abandoned further attempts to obtaining information from the arlessa. She had stared blankly at him when he tried to interrogate her about Eamon, then burst into tears when his frustration bit through his words. The bann gave up on extracting anything of use from his sister-in-law, and turned his attention to Flora instead. She was standing near the low fan of steps that led up to the arl’s platform; her face turned towards his brother’s toppled throne. There was a faint crease of bemusement across her forehead: it looked like a crack in a marble head. 

“I don’t normally make comments like this,” the bann observed after a long moment, the words coloured by a half-laugh. “Especially in the current circumstances. But your face is absolutely  _ extraordinary.”  _

Flora looked at Teagan Guerrin as though he were something mildly horrifying that had washed up on the shore. 

“You’re a great advertisement for the Wardens,” he continued, amused. “ _ Almost _ enough for me to consider membership, except for - you know - the  _ mandatory familial obligations _ that come with the name.”

He smiled at her, eyes creasing at the corners. 

Flora had no idea what he was talking about. She shot a hopeful glance at Sten, who turned away; there would be no distraction from the Qunari. Instead, she took a hesitant step towards the arlessa, who was still hunched near the empty throne. She had nothing to offer the lady Isolde apart from her mending - and the arlessa did not appear injured - but she felt a clench in her belly at the woman’s abject despair.

“Is there anything I can bring you?” she offered, wondering if there was some respectful honorific she ought to be using. “I can try and find the kitchens.” 

The arlessa looked up at her, the skin sallow and swollen from an excess of tears. Her sandy eyelashes were stuck in clumps to her cheeks. The sight of Flora - as it had outside the castle - drew her breath sharply inwards; her fingers clenching in the wrinkled silk of her skirt. It was neither a pleased inhalation, nor one of relief; the arlessa dropped her gaze swiftly and flicked a wordless rejection with her hand. 

Flora did not take offense to Isolde Guerrin’s dismissive gesture. On the contrary, she appreciated the blunt candor. At that moment, Alistair and the Rainesfere soldiers escorted a limping and manacled Jowan through a side-door; the tip of her brother-warden’s blade nudged at the base of the maleficar’s spine. 

Teagan Guerrin made a low sound in his throat, his fingers moving over the hilt of his blade. The conflict between family loyalty and familial duty writ itself stark on his face: for a moment, he wanted nothing more than to run his brother’s tormentor through. The mantle of bann weighed heavier on his shoulders; when Jowan was prodded towards him, he inhaled and addressed him with brittle formality.

“Speak, mage, and hope that you finish before my patience wears thin. I’ve heard a glut of treachery in recent times.”

The emaciated creature that answered to Jowan shot him a wary, weary look. He sagged between the two Rainesfere guards, manacles biting into the thin bones of his wrists. One of his eyes had been blacked between the dungeons and the great hall: the socket bruised a lurid purple. The words emerged reluctantly and veined with regret, though this went unnoticed by his antagonistic audience.

“It all began when Loghain Mac Tir’s steward found me in a tavern- ”

Flora was not listening to the hesitant explanation; the players involved in such a political drama were strangers to her, their motives inexplicable. She was still preoccupied with the frightening scale of the magic summoned by her hand; exponentially vaster than anything she had created before. The weight of such massive expenditure rested  _ literally _ on her head: her hair had sprouted six further inches and was escaping its bindings. 

_ Why didn’t you give me any warning?  _

There followed a perplexed pause. 

** _Because then you would have been crushed on the flagstones._ **

Flora ground her teeth. 

_ I meant - why didn’t you tell me earlier that I could do that? Summon a barrier that large? Have I always been able to do that?  _

** _The potential was there; but never before needed. _ **

_ I don’t understand.  _

** _The Veil is a sea wall. Most often a trickle of our magic is let through. But sometimes a tide is needed. _ **

Flora grudgingly appreciated the reference. 

_ Was that a tide? What I did just then? _

There came a flutter of amusement. 

** _No. _ **

She took a deep breath. 

_ Could I… could I have saved Duncan if I’d been in the valley at Ostagar? With that sort of shield?  _

A ripple of irritation flowed over her skull like a breeze across an open book.

** _Cease this infatuation with a dead man. _ **

_ But-  _

** _His time is OVER. _ **

Meanwhile, the bann was beginning to lose his temper. His hands were knotted into fists and a dark red flush had bloomed on his throat. He had heard how Loghain Mac Tir had instructed Jowan to keep Eamon comatose through any means necessary; and how the inexperienced mage’s curse had sunk too deep into the arl’s aging body. The reminder that Jowan had also been recruited to keep Connor Guerrin’s magic hidden was the final straw. 

“You’ve brought nothing but death and devastation to my family,” snarled the bann, sounding more Mabari than man. “Foul creature! If I had Mac Tir standing before me now, I would slay him on the spot. Since I only have  _ you-” _

The bann’s groping fingers closed around the hilt of his sword. He withdrew the blade several scraping inches and then was snared in an appraising grey stare; like the barb in the fleshy pink gullet of a salmon. Flora, who had briefly returned her attention to the corporeal world, was eyeing him over the cringing maleficar. The girl was dishevelled, grubby, and clad in a sack intended for turnips; and yet there was an imperiousness that ran through her body like a vein of gold. It sounded in the lift of her chin, the haughty arch of her brow; the cool, unwavering expectancy of her stare. 

“You said the arl would decide his fate.” 

The common cadence of the north was a jarring foil. The bann hesitated, his mind jolted off track for a reason that he could not quite comprehend. He looked at Flora, who had resumed her vague staring into space; then shook his head in a quick back-forth.

“The arl will see proper justice for such treachery,” he said at last, and his words were accompanied by a crash from the eastern tower that shook dust from the rafters. The boy’s mother flinched, uttering something beneath her breath in her native tongue. 

Alistair had started to pace the short distance between the slumped prisoner and the toppled throne. Adrenaline from the recent fight still coursed hot and raw in his veins; the crash reminded him that the battle for Redcliffe was far from won. The powerful mass of his body, augmented by mail-woven steel, was not made for abbreviated movements: he looked like a caged tiger. 

The maleficar lifted his head just long enough to survey the weeping woman who had ordered his torture, the fuming bann and the swordsman stalking the tiles. 

“I want to talk to Flora,” Jowan said, so soft that the request was almost buried beneath Alistair’s footsteps. “Alone.” 

Despite their quietness, the young Warden heard the words well enough. 

“You must be joking,” he retorted sharply, drawing in a swift breath of air.  _ “No.” _

** _Learn what he knows. _ **

Sitting on the nearby step, Flora looked across at the mage who had arrived at the Circle on the same day as herself. They had never been  _ friends _ but they had shared many of the same classes: he, with his middling ability, had shown some sympathy when she failed to conjure even the most basic of spells. Eventually his attitude towards her had cooled; the sympathy at her incompetence veered into a more patronising form of pity. 

Still, Flora only had time to begrudge one man at a time, and this place was reserved solely for Loghain Mac Tir. She pushed herself up with her palms; the movement caught Alistair’s attention and he turned, one hand stretching out towards her.

“Flora,” he said quietly, eyes searching her face. “He’s  _ dangerous.”  _

“Mm,” Flora agreed, patting the back of his hand gently as she avoided it. “I’ll be careful.”

_ My shield stopped his magic before, back in the Circle. And besides, he ain’t got the blood to fuel anything. He’s barely got enough to feed his innards. His body is a drought.  _

Alistair’s face was the polar opposite of her own: clear and open, every nuanced emotion and thought was laid bare. Now his mouth twisted down with unhappiness, his brow scored as if with an ink pen. Still, he made no attempt to impede his sister-warden as she made her way over to the manacled prisoner. The bann made a reluctant retreat of several yards; Alistair did the same, but kept his blade candidly bare. 

Jowan raised his eyes and once more Flora felt a swift nudge of shock at how gaunt he had become: the skin on his cheeks stretched thin enough to see the spiderweb of vessels beneath. There were patches of white on his skull where the hair had come away in clumps. The young man had lost his natural colour; faded like a painting left in the sun. 

“The big one,” he offered faintly, the corner of his mouth flickering upwards. “Is he your lover? You said _no _to half the Circle.”

Flora was astonished at the total irrelevancy of such a question. Ignoring it, she fixed him with her ambiguous stare: unfathomable as the cold grey depths of the Waking Sea. 

“What is it that you know,” she said, recalling the instruction from her spirits. “That you haven’t told?” 

He was quiet for a moment but Flora waited patiently. She knew that he had decided to tell her the moment that he requested to speak with her; this was just prevarication. 

“When I was studying blood magic,” Jowan said at last, barely above a whisper. “I stole the forbidden books from the Circle library. The ones they kept hidden.”

The illiterate Flora had no good memories from the Circle library; the stacked shelves taunted her with their weight of inaccessible knowledge. She had a vague mistrust of books anyway: how could there be enough knowledge in the world to fill a whole  _ room?  _ Regardless she kept silent, fiddling with the fraying hem of her makeshift tunic. A thread clung to her finger and she drew it out slowly, watching the fabric deconstruct itself. 

“The easiest way to reverse possession is by a willing sacrifice,” the maleficar said softly, darting a swift glance at her. “The boy’s mother loves him, doesn’t she?”

Flora shot him the scowl of a Herring native: salt-laced and coarse. 

“We ain’t doing that,” she said bluntly. “What’s the not-easy way?”

The defeated arlessa, who looked near as sickly as the prisoner, made a weak sound of protest. Flora did not acknowledge it: her eyes set unblinking on the maleficar’s face. 

“There’s a ritual,” Jowan said quietly, his eyes on his feet. “It’s complicated and only a skilled mage has any chance of success, but… if they  _ are  _ successful, the possession can be lifted with no harm done to the victim.” 

Flora heard Alistair - who was eavesdropping - draw in a sharp breath. As a past recruit of the Templars, he understood the implications of this far better than Flora. 

“A skilled mage,” she repeated; the compass of her mind already tilting towards the next port on their journey. “That ain’t me. But Alistair and I need to go to the Circle anyway.” 

_ We could ask them to help the little boy before they join us against the Darkspawn.  _

There was a soft ripple of approval from her spirits and Flora pushed herself to her feet, not wanting to waste a moment more. Her northerner’s mind rebelled at stagnation: like the constant advance and retreat of the tide, it prompted her to keep moving. She could see from the expression on Alistair’s face that he had reached the same conclusion. 

Before Flora went to him, she looked down at Jowan. She was not sure what to say - it was pointless to demand an explanation for his behaviour, and besides he did not owe one to her. She wondered if he would survive long enough to be sentenced by the arl, if he ever awoke. 

_ Is it worth going to find the arl and trying to mend him?  _

** _A waste of time. A blood-curse cannot be mended: it must be expelled. _ **

In the meantime, the bann and Alistair had been exchanging swift conversation: they had heard enough to discern the gist of the plan. The two men stood framed by shattered furniture; which lay strewn across the tiles like a shipwreck 

“The Circle lies a hundred miles north, at the head of the lake,” Teagan Guerrin said with a grimace, gesturing to an invisible map that hung before them. “It would take you a week to walk there and back. My mare broke free from its tether during the fighting last night - I wonder if there are any horses left in the stables here?”

He and Alistair looked reflexively towards the pair of entrance doors, beyond which lay the courtyard and - nestled at the foot of a tower - Arl Eamon’s stables. Alistair had spent the first decade of his life beneath the angled thatch, dreaming of becoming some lesser noble’s squire. 

“I didn’t see any when we were out there earlier,” Alistair replied, the handsome face creasing in a grimace. “Shit. How many more nights can Redcliffe last?”

“How long is a stirrup rein?” replied the bann drily, and without humour. “If your friends can assist us again, perhaps a little longer.” 

Flora withdrew her gleaming palm from Jowan’s arm. A slight hue had returned to his cheeks; the gauntness a little less pronounced. He stared at her, the pupils shrunken to pinpricks within the sallow sclera. 

“Why?” he asked, bewildered.

“Don’t waste it,” Flora replied, meaning:  _ don’t spend my efforts on more blood magic.  _

He waited, but she offered no further explanation. Sten volunteered to escort the prisoner back to the cells; Jowan left the great hall limping, with the shadow of the Qunari draped over him like a shroud.

Flora turned her attention to Alistair, who was staring into the distance as though a convenient horse might canter in from the kitchens. 

“There’s a southerly wind today.”

Flora had noticed it as soon as they had left the Chantry eaves that morning: the air swept up from the south, light and delicate, spun with frost from the mountains. It tasted different on the tongue from the northern wind she knew far better: the hoarse and salt-laced exhalation of the coast.

“One of the fishing boats might take us. It’d be quicker on the water.” 

She remembered how Alistair had bemoaned the poor condition of the roads: their recent deterioration a mirror to the arl’s ailing health.

The bann straightened, his face brightening. 

“That’s not a bad idea at all. There’s more than enough breeze to fill a sail.” 

The previous night,the two Warden-recruits, the bann and Leliana had planned out their defences against the impending attack. Now, they - minus the lay-sister, who was enlisting support from surrounding villages - plotted what their next step would be. The Qunari and the bard, who together had slaughtered more undead than the rest of the defenders combined, would stay and assist in the defence of Redcliffe. Alistair and Flora, with coin and an edict from the bann, would seek passage to the northern part of the lake on one of the larger fishing vessels. At the Circle, they would recruit the mages to their own cause, while also seeking a cure for the abominable child. Morrigan, naturally, would do as she pleased. 

One of the Rainesfere men, after a pointed stare from the bann, had donated his Rainesfere tunic to replace Flora’s  _ Kerbrook Turnips  _ sack. Flora, as she changed, was gratified at the hum of approval from her spirits. Aware that she was not the sharpest fish hook in the case, she was proud that her suggestion of travelling on the water had gone down well; she rarely came up with ideas that won praise. 

The others duly turned their backs while their mender extracted herself from the remains of her tattered sackcloth. Teagan Guerrin watched Alistair for a long moment from the tail of his eye. The young warrior was staring fixedly at the far end of the hall; prohibiting his gaze fron wandering an inch. 

“Alistair,” the bann said, quietly. 

Alistair stiffened, his jaw fixing itself as though cast in iron. He made no reply; eyes still set on the great wooden doors. 

Despite the young man’s discomfort, Teagan was not dissuaded.

“You know what Cailan’s death means, don’t you?” 

Alistair’s gaze flickered towards him like the darting of a firefly: the green flecks in the hazel standing out starkly. It took him a moment to reply, and the words emerged with hollow joviality.

“It means a royal funeral. Women weeping, priestesses chanting. That sort of thing.” 

Eamon’s brother was suddenly reminded of himself almost two decades prior: drunken nights in Ostwick taverns, dice games with foreign women and racing horses for uncounted miles across the highgrass plains of the Marches. Then, one day, a letter had arrived with the Guerrin tower stamped in wax like a bloody thumbprint; a familial summons from across the Waking Sea. 

_ Enough folly, my son. Your duty lies in Rainesfere, not in the alehouses of Ansburg. _

“Alistair,” Teagan said again, and this time there was a shadow of sympathy in the word. “You  _ know  _ what this means. Maric - ” 

Alistair turned around and strode to his sister-warden, who had half-wrangled herself into the tunic. The pale line of Flora’s back was crossed by the loosened laces, and the wine-red tributaries of her hair. He could smell the salt soap on her body, rising from the heat of recent battle. 

“I ain’t never worn this stuff before,” she observed with faint suspicion, sensing him standing at her back. “What is it?”

Alistair took the ends of the laces and fed them carefully through the final eyelets. 

“Velvet, I think, ” he replied, watching the berry-red folds tighten as he drew out the laces. 

“Oh. I don’t like it. I miss my sack.” 

Flora looked over her shoulder, angling her face up to his. There must have been some remnant of discomfort in Alistair’s returning gaze; a faint line creased the curve of her brow. She opened her mouth and then closed it again: Teagan Guerrin was approaching. 

“Right,” Alistair said quickly, directing the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Let’s find us a boat.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so we have our plan to go to the Circle! Finally! I decided to change the manner of their journey slightly because I thought it made logical sense to go at least part of the way by boat - Redcliffe is at the bottom of lake calenhad and kinloch is at the top! (Kin loch means head of the lake in Gaelic!). Also I just thought I would clarify something - when Flora’s magic makes her hair grow, it’s just the hair on her HEAD. IMAGINE the hair on her LEGS growing six inches spontaneously!! Ahahhahaa! No, that doesn’t happen. lol. Funny to think about though! 
> 
> In other OOC news.... very important news..... WE HAVE MOVED! Finally!! Back to Wales!!! I’m never ever moving out of my beloved country again. Things are super chaotic and busy now, we’re renting a little Victorian terrace which is gorgeous and full of character but also full of DIY jobs.... and I’m starting my new job in a week and a half! Hurray!


	61. By Sail To The Circle

Emerging from the front gates felt like waking from a fever dream. The castle and the terrible things it contained - the dying arl, the possessed child and his mourning mother, the imprisoned maleficar and the shuffling dead - were like some nightmare banished by the pale golden eye of the sun. The winter air had the crispness of a tart apple; the sky decorated with a delicate lace pattern of cloud. It was cold, but not uncomfortably so, and remnants of the dawn frost still clung to the fence posts. The northerly wind, fresh from the Frostbacks, skimmed across the surface of the lake below; leaving a trail of white caps in its wake. Although it felt as though they had spent days trapped behind the castle’s bleak and merciless walls, the sun had not yet reached its midday point. 

Once they had descended the half-mile to the town, the young Warden-recruits and the arl’s brother set about putting their plan into motion. Wanting to avoid a lecture from her former instructors, Flora retrieved her neglected staff from their cart; dusted it off and slung it across her back. She also went to find the Warden treaties from where she had stowed them for safekeeping before the previous night’s battle. Since she had no way of deciphering which sheet of parchment was pertinent to the Circle, she decided to take them all. 

Meanwhile Alistair related their plan to Sten outside the Chantry, wondering if the Qunari would take any notice. To his surprise it was recieved with an impassive nod: the Par Vollen warrior was far more interested in defending the town than consorting with a bevy of magic-wielding heathens. Sten also indicated, in as few words as were needed, that he would inform the lay-sister of the arrangements on her return. 

Unlike in Orlais, the people of Ferelden owed obedience only to their king and to their liege lord: Teagan Guerrin had no legal jurisdiction within his brother’s arling and could not simply commandeer a boat. The bann, after emptying his coin purse and promising an additional reward from the arl, eventually managed to cajole the captain of Redcliffe’s swiftest fishing vessel into taking the Warden-recruits north. Since the waters surrounding the Circle were enchanted to prevent escape, the fisherman Bardon would ferry Alistair and Flora to the nearest settlement. 

As the sun reached its apex, the young Wardens and the bann reunited on the lakeside near the maze of docks and piers. Some yards away stood the rotten remains of the jetty that had collapsed beneath Flora during last night’s battle. She pointedly turned her back on it, not wanting a reminder of her plunge into Calenhad’s shallows. 

Instead, she focused her attention to the vessel anchored before them: thirty feet in length, with a lone mast and a hull space accessible by a hatch. It was designed to trawl vast nets in its wake; capable of snaring entire shoals of fish at once. It was a similar size to the boats used in Herring; except no single-sailed craft would last long against the volatile winds of the Waking Sea. 

There were only four fishermen in the boat’s crew, and the eldest was captain by virtue of age. Bardon was heavy-bellied and liberally bearded; with small, very bright blue eyes currently narrowed at the two young Wardens. He was standing at the boat’s rail, Teagan’s coinpurse fixed securely to his belt. 

The bann had just presented the pair with another purse: a nondescript leather pouch with a startling weight. Inside was more coin than Flora had ever seen gathered in one place -  _ gold coins  _ too, not bronze or silver. Alarmed by the sudden increase in value of her palm, she hastily handed the purse across to Alistair.

While the two men poured over a map and a choice of road, Flora attended to the dwarven mercenary and his shrivelled liver. She had needed to fetch Dwyn from his dockside dwelling; he had clearly not expected her to fulfil her side of the previous night’s bargain. It did not take her long to purge the intoxicated organ: he sat on a mooring post while she crouched before him. 

“S’pose you’re goin’ to tell me to quit drinking,” the dwarf observed, squinting down at the top of her head.

Flora was astonished. “No. Ain’t my liver.”

“But you’ve gone to all this effort.” The dwarf’s hand crept towards the neck of a bottle stashed at his side: it hovered there, indecisive. 

“Mm. You’ll live longer if you’re nice to your guts.” 

“Huh.” Dwyn hesitated a moment longer, then his fingers closed around the bottleneck and he took a defiant swig. 

If he was expecting a reaction, he received none: Flora had scrambled to her feet and was peering over her shoulder. Alistair and the bann had finished consulting the map; the boat was ready to raise anchor.

The dwarf shot her an appraising glance, eye narrowed like an experienced trader.

“Ever fancy becoming a fortune hunter?”

“Don’t know what that is.”

“A lass with your looks could snare a king.” 

“Eh,” said Flora, distractedly. “I have to go.” 

Dwyn raised his bottle in wordless farewell.

A single plank of wood joined boat and dock; behind the rail, the captain was muttering darkly about changeable currents. Flora rejoined the two men, her staff slithering down a shoulder as she hoisted her pack onto the other. 

“Goodbye and good luck,” Teagan said, the corner of his mouth twisting in a humourless half-smile. “Maker watch over you on the road - and the waves too, I suppose. I pray that there’ll still be a Redcliffe remaining for you to return to. If these were the old days, I could raise an army from the common folk.” 

The day was already half over: in eight short hours, the assault of the dead would begin once more.

“We’ll be as quick as possible,” Flora’s brother-warden promised earnestly, simultaneously surprised by his own fervour. On their arrival Alistair had harboured only a mild resentment towards the town of his birth: now, he felt oddly protective of the place. 

“Mm,” agreed a fidgeting Flora, now eager to be underway. “And you have Sister Leliana, and Sten. They’re  _ better _ than an army.” 

Teagan half-smiled and ducked his head: he was not entirely sure that he agreed, but was too much a gentleman to say so. The bann watched the two Warden-recruits as they boarded, each weighed down with their packs and personal apparatus. Alistair, unable to swim and already nervous, had exchanged the morning’s armour for travel leathers. Flora’s staff, long and cumbersome, clattered against the hull as she followed him onto the deck: she was sorely tempted to hurl it overboard. 

“Maker’s Breath,” observed Alistair faintly as they embarked. “I’ve… I’ve never smelt anything like it.” 

“Aaaah,” Flora inhaled a long breath. “Reminds me of home.” 

“It’s like I’ve stuck my head in a barrel of salmon.” 

“Mm. Ain’t it nice?” 

“Not the word I’d use.”

The deck was cluttered with the stray detritus of a fishing vessel: snakelike coils of rope, empty crates and loose folds of spare netting. The captain, Bardon, made no formal greeting as he stood near the mast: the old oarsman scoured them both with a raking stare. Alistair, with his remarkable height and powerful build, received wary approval: in contrast; Flora got only a glower and a sour tautening of the lips. Flora understood the cause of his discomfort: as a female and a redhead, she was doubly unlucky aboard a boat, and all fishermen were superstitious. She had lived under constant scrutiny in Herring, where the locals adhered to the old tenets like a religion. The fact that she was a mage caused less consternation than the hue of her hair. 

As the anchor was drawn up, the bann gave them a somber wave, his eyes following the line of the deck’s rail. The sails were full of the wind from the Frostbacks and the ship strained at its leash; ready for the off. The north was a shadow on the far horizon; the surface of Lake Calenhad tousled by the fretful air. Beneath their feet, stout little waves harassed the ship’s underbelly: the wood complained loudly with creaks and groans. Redcliffe shrank in inches as the water stretched further between them: the buildings became irregular patterns of stone, the castle a child’s replica perched on its upwards thrust of rock.

Flora watched the town fade into a scribble of grey on the shore, her bare elbows on the rail. The wind gleefully picked apart her hair; freeing much of it from the morning’s hasty bun. Although she was pleased to be on a fishing boat once again, it did not live up to her childhood memories: they were not on the sea, but on a docile, lesser cousin, the air tasted bland and unsalted. 

Curious to compare their trawl-line and netting to the apparatus used by her father, Flora turned away from the water. She almost collided with her brother-warden, who lurched towards her like a drunkard expelled from a tavern.

“Sorry,” Alistair muttered, groping a hand towards the railing. “Don’t think I- I’ve got my sea-legs yet.”

He took another unsteady step, a faint tinge of green underlining the earthy hue of his cheeks. Flora reached out to steady him; fingers curling around his elbow as he swayed. This was no easy task considering the full foot of disparity in their heights and the significant difference in their breadths: three Floras might make one Alistair. If he lost his balance it would be like some great oak toppling in the forest. 

“This ain’t the sea,” she said, eyeing his sallow cheeks with some trepidation. “It’s an  _ inferior lake.  _ Are you alright?” 

“I’ll… I’m sure I’ll be fine.” 

The words emerged constricted: Flora could see Alistair’s knuckles whitening around the rail. A constellation of sweat had emerged across the smooth span of his brow. 

“On second thoughts,” he added faintly as the deck of the boat tilted; the water on their side rising a foot towards them. “I might go and sit down below. Somewhere where I can’t see the water.”

Flora watched her brother-warden inch towards the hatch that led down to the hull; he moved with the jerking hesitation of the infirm, or the very old. 

_ I can’t mend sea sickness, can I? _

** _No. It is only discomfort, not an illness to be cured._ **

The hatch had a short ladder leading to the hull space: as she clambered down, Flora was struck with an odd sense of familiarity. She then remembered that only that morning they had made the descent into the castle tunnel. It seemed like days ago: a great deal had occurred in a short span of hours. 

The hull of the boat was shadowed but spacious, high enough for a man shorter than Alistair to stand. Several crates were piled at one end; a tangle of half-mended netting lay at the other, separated by the downwards thrust of the mast. A lantern, caged in iron and suspended overhead, provided some swaying light. The elongated space echoed with the abrupt slap of water against wood as the ship ploughed forwards. 

Alistair was sitting against the gentle curve of the hull, and the size of his bowed frame made the space seem cramped. He bore a grimace of frustration: his body, trained to be unfailingly reliable in combat, had let him down. 

Avoiding the swinging lantern, Flora closed the space between them in a few steps. He darted a swift glance at her, resigned.

“You don’t need to be down here,” he said, returning his gaze to the knotted wood between his knees. “I’ll be fine. You should stay where you can… appreciate the water.”

Instead of responding, Flora pulled a face: all other water was lacking compared to the tumultuous span of the Waking Sea. She knelt, shifting one of his bent knees to make room; then reached forward, to wrap her fingers around his wrists.

“I can’t mend sea-sickness,” she said, solemn-eyed and apologetic. “But this will help.” 

Her thumbs found the pulse and pressed down, depressing the skin on the inner wrist. Flora could feel the responding flare of his heartbeat; the quickening of the blood beneath her wrist. Alistair did not ask what she was doing: he was momentarily speechless. 

“It’s meant to keep you steady,” she continued, when he said nothing in response. “When the world is unbalanced.” 

Alistair gave a slight nod in acknowledgement. The rocking of the boat became background noise as he gazed at her: unblinking and unapologetic. Flora’s face was a foot from his own, illuminated at intervals by the gentle sway of the lantern. He did not often have the opportunity to study her in such near quarters: the night loaned them privacy, but demanded visibility as payment. To be this close was a chance to see beyond the imperious features; to perceive the details picked out by a softer brush. There were a handful of tawny freckles scattered between her cheekbones; the same faded hue as Antivan tea. Her teeth were small and very white; between the front two, there was a gap just wide wide enough to pass a sheet of parchment. At a certain angle, the bleak grey of her irises had a bluish tinge. She did not look away when Alistair gazed at her but held his stare unblinking; he wondered if it was a northern trait, or a habit she had developed from conversing with spirits with no need for social niceties.

The white eye of the sun shrouded itself in cloud for some time; rain threatened the stillness of the air; and then the eye opened and the skies were clear once more. The boat continued northwards, ploughing through the ripples with dogged persistence. The sail blew taut with cold air from the Frostbacks; the high cliffs that caged the lake tapered into the shallower hills of the bannorn. 

“Did it work?” 

Flora had to repeat the question twice before he realised what she was asking. To Alistair’s surprise, the nausea in his belly had subsided to a background grumble. He was unsure whether it was due to the pressure against his wrists or the disconcerting closeness of her face. 

_ Flora,  _ he thought.  _ It’s a name of growing things. Of soil and green gardens. It suits her.  _

“Yes,” he said, studying her closely. “It’s much better, thank you.” 

Pleased, Flora released his wrists, leaving the warmth of her thumbs indented on his skin. There was an eyelash resting on the high bone of her cheek: a sooty filament that stood out stark against her skin. Alistair pressed his own thumb to his mouth, then touched it to her face. The eyelash clung on; there remained a faint smudge of dampness on her cheek when he removed it. He saw that Flora was holding her breath, or otherwise she had forgotten to breathe at all. 

“You have four freckles on your nose,” he said softly and she eyed him, suddenly curious.

Then neither spoke: the only sound came from the rhythmic slap of water against wood and the groan of the mast overhead. The muted sway of the lantern created an illusion of evening; the shadow piled uneven against the curved hull. After a moment of deliberation Flora leaned forwards, closing the space between them in slow inches. Alistair did not move, his eyes fixed on her face; the air also held suspended in his throat. 

His sister-warden’s body had none of her face’s ambiguity: it was fired with heat and purpose. She settled herself against him as though they were embracing; he could feel her small breasts swell and subside against the firm muscle of his chest. It was too perfect an alignment to be a coincidence. The rapid beat of her heart was confirmation enough: it matched the urgency of his own. Unprompted by any rational thought, Alistair put his hands on her; far more confidently than he could have predicted. His fingers found the gentle contour of her hips: the flesh was warm and pliant beneath the creased fabric of the tunic. 

It was impossible to tell who initiated the descent: Flora leaned back as he guided her downwards, Maric’s son once again fuelled by unprecedented boldness. Regardless, it ended with her beneath him on the water-stained decking, his palms spread over loose ropes of hair. 

Alistair stared down at her in a haze of fixated desire; the world faded to faint outlines. Her opaque grey gaze met his and then she smiled; her fingers meandering up the hard muscle of his arm.

“Oi, Grey Wardens - recruits - whatever you two are.”

The captain’s broad and unamused Redcliffe tones filtered down through the hatch; unwelcome as a wasp. 

“There’s something...  _ odd  _ up here.” 

Alistair wanted to launch the man into the sun. With great reluctance he returned upright as Flora blinked; slightly awed by what had just - had  _ almost _ \- occurred between them. She fastened the buttons of her tunic blindly, curious gaze wandering over his face. 

“I’ll… I’ll go up and see.” 

“I’ll join you,” he replied, drily. “In just a bit.” 

The corner of Flora’s mouth curved upwards; her eyes darting the length of his body.

“Ooh,” she agreed solemnly. “Yes.” 

Alistair watched her clamber the ladder with ease - she was used to navigating the architecture of a mid-sized vessel - and vanish through the open hatch. With a sigh of resignation, he summoned an array of dull and offensive images: from the ravenous maw of a Hurlock to the scowling bewhiskered visage of the Chantry Mother at the monastery. 

Flora emerged blinking into a flat and grey afternoon sky; the sun obscured by a tapestry of interwoven cloud. The lake was the same bleak hue as the heavens; the water seemed to merge into the edge of the horizon. The ruddy cliffs of Calenhad’s south were long behind them ; the landscape had mellowed into meandering farmland. Clumps of olive green woods separated the fields, the pines bristling like upended paintbrushes. Small settlements sprouted at intervals along the coast, most had less than a dozen buildings. 

The captain, Bardon, was standing near the helm. He was scowling, his face rigid with suspicion; arms crossed across his faded leathers. Flora looked around for the cause of his consternation - there seemed to be nothing overtly amiss - then gazed at him in bemusement.

“Eh?”

The weathered man ground his jaw. 

“There’s something following us.”

There were fewer seagulls than usual swarming the sails: the fishing boat was a ferry that day and had no trailing tail of netting.

“Not a gull. Something else.” 

For a single moment of irrational terror, Flora thought:  _ ARCHDEMON!!  _

The wind blew her hair into her mouth. 

** _No._ **

She scoured the skies: there was nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. The captain let out a grunt of irritation and returned his attention to the flaking wood of the rail. There was a rotten patch near the end and he scraped at it with the dirty line of a nail. Flora watched him - he had the same blunt, barrel-chested build as her father - and he pointedly turned his head.

_ Is it Morrigan? We haven’t seen her since last night. _

Her spirits made no reply: they only ever answered a minority of her questions.

There was a small village on the bank of the lake; no more than eight buildings, with a single dock on skeletal legs. Small figures, too distant to be distinct, attended to a huddle of moored boats, processing the day’s catch. Flora watched them and felt homesickness curdle in her belly: she missed Herring like a shorn-off limb. 

“You saved my wife’s father last night.” 

Plucking the hair from her face she looked sideways; Bardon was surveying her through narrowed eyes. 

“The man on the jetty?” she asked, and he gave a grunt of acknowledgement. “I’m glad I could help.”

The fisherman’s teeth ground in his head. 

“You should’ve let him get eaten. Tiresome old bugger. Thought I was rid of him at last.”

“Oh,” Flora replied, nonplussed. “I didn’t realise. Sorry.”

Bardon shot her one last scowl, then jabbed his finger at an angle.  _ “There.” _

The fisherman’s accusation was aimed at a bird perched on the nearby rail. It was the bluish black of mourner’s satin, and a small, orange eye scrutinised them keenly. The wind bit at its feathers; it cocked its head in irritation.Flora felt her brother-warden’s closeness without turning; she guessed that he had just emerged from the hatch. Sure enough, Alistair joined her at the railing a moment later and they both stared at the bird: the same questions in their minds.

“Is that…?”

”Dunno,” replied Flora, with the usual eloquence. “Morrigan?” 

The bird shifted from one clawed foot to the other, ignoring them both. Alistair leaned forward, raising his voice above the chop of the waves. 

“Witch,” he ventured, trialling flippancy to see if it might prompt a response. “Do birds get seasick? Just wondering.” 

The fisherman let out a snort of contempt. Alistair, who had won some early approval with his height and brawn, promptly lost it again: men should not be having conversations with  _ wildlife.  _ The bird rose several inches as the boat navigated a patch of abrupt and jarring water. It landed back on the rail moments later, feathers settling like a woman smoothing her skirts. Flora glanced up at Alistair, who gave a bemused shrug.

“I suppose it’s just a bird,” he said, uncertain. “Maybe it’s too tired to fly back to shore.”

The sky was starting to lose its light: evening arrived early during the winter months. Flora rested her elbows on the railing and peered at the bird with her most focused and appraising stare; eyes narrowed. Once again, it ignored her.

“You can stay here,” she informed it, solemnly. “But you must earn your keep by  _ murdering  _ any seagulls who come within ten yards of the mast. Do you consent?”

The bird cocked its head. Flora turned her back, leaning against the wood and watching her brother-warden pick his way cautiously across the tilting deck. He had not quite found his sea-legs yet; but at least he did not seem as though he was about to be sick. 

“I’ve a map here,” she heard Alistair say; the fisherman responded with a grunt. “Where were you planning on dropping- ”

“Ha, ha, ha!” 

The woman’s voice was crowing, triumphant: the smirk laid bare in her laugh. Flora and Alistair turned as one: the fisherman released an audible groan of dismay. Morrigan, in all her wild and dishevelled glory, was perched on the rail with glee writ across her face. 

“It doesn’t take much to fool you two,” she observed, extending her feet and curling her bare toes. The nails were dark with soil; a loop of delicate interlaced bones hung around the ankle. 

Alistair’s face was rigid with displeasure: he was not pleased to see her. 

“Are you coming to the Circle with us?” Flora enquired tentatively, removing more windblown strands from her face. “I didn’t think it was… it was your sort of place.” 

“Ha! It doesn’t seem the place for the  _ ungentle giant _ either, but the lummox is here nonetheless.” 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boat chapter! Flora doesn’t seem to be too appreciative though, she’s too busy slating Lake Calanhad for not being the Waking Sea, lol. 
> 
> The sexual tension between Flora and Alistair is starting to get too much to bear! I mean, it was pretty inevitable - even leaving out any potential feelings XD nope they’ve not even discussed anything of the sort and they still have this polite formality going on in the daylight even as they get physically acquainted in the dark lol 
> 
> Flora’s reaction to being told that she shouldn’t have bothered saving the old man on the jetty makes me laugh, she’s just like WTF


	62. The Standing Stones

“With any luck, they’ll decide to keep  _ you _ in the Circle for observation.”

Alistair’s eyes were narrowed and the clean line of his jaw was wound tight as a lute string. The object of his ire - perched on the ship’s rail - let out a contemptuous snort; yellow cat’s-eyes glinting. The breeze, amplified by acres of open water, plucked free strands of hair and flung them about the witch’s laughing face. 

“I’d like to see them try and contain  _ me,”  _ she commented with acerbic glee. “‘Tis a thought  _ most _ amusing. Not all of us are content to be penned like mindless cattle.”

This remark, although not directed to Flora, was clearly about her. Alistair ground his teeth, but Flora was not listening. She was leaning over the water with the absence of expression that signalled a conversation with her spirits. She had given up on trying to restrain her own hair: the wind delighted in deconstructing any attempt to tame it. 

_ When we arrive at the Circle tomorrow, what do we say when we show them the treaty? _

** _What do you mean: what do you say? _ **

_ Are there any special… words to use? I don’t want to say the wrong thing to the senior mages. _

There followed a drawn out pause. Flora felt her general’s hesitation wash around her skull like ale swirled in a tankard.

** _Don’t worry about that now. You aren’t there yet. _ **

She waited, but there came no further clarification. Since there was nothing to be gained by brooding, Flora thrust her concern to the back of her mind. She smiled at Morrigan, who looked rather taken aback. 

“I’m glad to see you. They’ll miss your magic in Redcliffe tonight. You must be wondering what a Circle is like inside.”

Three consecutive sentences was a speech for the typically laconic Flora. The witch eyed her with mild curiosity; the waning afternoon light casting a finger of shadow across her face. Instead of responding she made an ambiguous sound in the back of her throat, her palms curling around the rail beneath her. 

The boat skimmed across the water; sails straining with ice-laced air from the Frostbacks. The captain leaned near the helm and glowered; he was not sure if a heavy coinpurse compensated for a full day’s loss of revenue. He had agreed to ferry the two Warden-recruits north in no small part due to his respect for Teagan Guerrin, who had forsaken his own bannorn to come to Redcliffe’s defence. Bardon had vaguely heard of Grey Wardens, but he had believed them to be long extinct - after all, there had not been a Blight for centuries. If some Grey Wardens did remain in Ferelden, the captain envisioned them as a band of grizzled and venerable warriors; not as a fresh-faced and untested pair barely out of adolescence. And: one a  _ redhead. _

Alistair could feel the man’s sceptical eyes boring into his back: he grimaced and turned his attention to the coast. They were fifty yards from the shore, close enough to see the hedges and crumbling stone that marked field boundaries. The central part of Ferelden - known colloquially as the Bannorn, despite being made up of several arlings - produced much of the land’s yearly crop. The harvest had been gathered months prior, and now the fields were covered in shorn, greyish scrub. A few were occupied by clusters of huddled sheep; one contained a herd of reclining cows. 

Watching the passing fields. Alistair recalled an old portent he had once heard about cows all lying down together - it either boded fair weather, or foul. He could not remember the particulars. As he searched his memory in vain, Flora came to rest her elbows on the railing beside him. The copper beech hair caught his attention first; several strands blown back against the high cut of her cheek. Yet again Alistair marvelled at how every small part of his sister-warden defied the pattern of his youthful crushes: the merry, plump, soft-cheeked and snub-nosed women who had once peppered his dreams. Flora’s nose followed the straight line of a mathematician’s ruler: her jaw chiselled with unerring precision. 

“I think the captain wants to throw me overboard,” she confessed, shooting Bardon a wary look over her shoulder. “Fishermen  _ hate _ redheads. If my hair didn’t grow back so quick they would have kept me bald in Herring.” 

Alistair turned and met the suspicious stare of the boat’s master, whose fingers were tapping an agitated rhythm on the helm.

“Man’s a fool,” he said lightly, keeping his voice too low for the fisherman to hear. “Who wouldn’t appreciate this?” 

He held one of the errant strands between finger and thumb. For a moment, the only sound was the rustle of water against the hull and the griping of gulls overhead. Flora wondered if he was going to mention what had almost happened between them in the shadowed space beneath their feet. 

_ If we hadn’t been interrupted -  _

When Alistair instead remained lost in thought, Flora understood: she could not quite explain it either. There was still a glaze of politeness over their daylit interaction. They had never spoken about or even vaguely alluded to the shrinking of the space between them at night. When the sun gave out its heatless light overhead, he treated her with the kind, gentle deference of an older sibling - a  _ brother-warden  _ in all senses of the word. But then there were electric moments when the mask of formality dropped and their eyes met without camouflage; both would startle as though stung. They would gaze at each other, transfixed, for a drawn-out heartbeat; then some minor daily intrusion would sever the tautened air and they would continue about their business. 

Flora brooded for several minutes, brow furrowed in three places. Even the nagging wail of a gull overhead could not rouse her; much to the disapproval of her general. 

** _Can’t you set aside your trivial adolescent lusting for the time being? It’s a distraction._ **

_ Dunno. I can’t help it. It don’t feel trivial. _

** _Bah! At least this one is more suitable than the last. _ **

The allusion to Duncan made Flora’s stomach sink in her belly, as though some cruel blacksmith had lined the organ with lead. An irrational guilt curdled like sour milk on her tongue. Aware that if she let their dead commander linger too long in her mind, she would descend into a melancholic sulk; Flora turned her eyes to the meandering line of the lake shore. The fields had yielded to wild moorland, broken by the occasional cluster of woods. The fir-trees sprouted like a fistful of dark feathers; the surrounding land scarred by swathes of raw and inhospitable rock. To the west, the sun was retiring behind the Frostbacks; the colour drained in gradual inches from the world. 

“Look, Flora.” 

Flora looked up; her brother-warden was pointing across the bristling waves. She was gratified to see Alistair steadier on his feet; he only had one hand clutching the rail as the boat shuddered. Following the tangent of his arm, she saw a cluster of ragged grey rocks grouped on tbe shore. A ring of granite columns assembled around a squat thumb of a plinth: as though guarding it, or perhaps preventing an escape. 

“Ooh.” Flora was fascinated, leaning over the rail for a better look. “I’ve heard about stone circles in stories. But I ain’t never  _ seen _ one before.”

“The Chantry broke apart most of the old shrines,” he observed, eyes moving over the protruding stone. “They aren’t keen on anything that doesn’t follow their lore. Maybe this one was too heavy to pull down.” 

“I wonder when it was made?” 

The half-light of sunset played tricks on the eye. The violet shadows shifted and it seemed as though the granite monoliths were moving; rearranging themselves for the night watch.

“A thousand years ago,” he said, then realised that she could not count beyond the number of ribs in a human chest. “In the time of your  _ great-great-great-many times great-grandfather.” _

Flora felt her general smirk. She could not imagine having such venerable ancestors. Her parents were the only family that she had ever known, and they existed entirely separate from the intimidating procession of forebears described by Alistair. 

“The lay sister would know precisely when,” Alistair continued, watching the stones recede from view as they sailed on. “She probably eats Fereldan archives for breakfast.”

He saw the corner of Flora’s mouth twist up a fraction: like any northerner. she was economical with expression.

“In Herring,” she said, her voice distant as though it were travelling leagues from the north. “They say that standing circles are traitors from the olden days, who got turned to stone as punishment for their crimes.”

Alistair thought darkly:  _ Mac Tir, even that fate is too good for you. _

“But some people think,” Flora continued, digging the blunt of her fingernail into the warped edge of the rail. “That the chieftains of the ancient tribes - the ones that used to rule here - were made into rock by their mages when they died, so that they could come back to defend the land in times of  _ mortal danger.”  _

“I wouldn’t say no to a band of warrior chieftains,” Alistair replied, a wry twist to his words. “They could join us alongside your giants of Highever. Perhaps we ought to go to the standing circle for help instead of the Circle Tower.” 

The corner of her mouth quirked once again. Morrigan, who had ignored their conversation thus far, interjected with feigned surprise. The witch was still propped on the railing; she had the balance of something four-legged. 

“And where were these  _ giants and granite chieftains  _ when the people of Ferelden were battling against their neighbours, hm?”

Morrigan found herself on the receiving end of a cool and unwavering stare: the pale irises colourless as dawn in winter

“The people of Ferelden,” Flora replied evenly. “Didn’t need help.”

For an instant, Flemeth’s daughter forgot that the progenitor of this statement was a foolish girl with minimal capability and a habit of talking to herself. Beneath the folklore, the vagaries and the daydreaming, there ran a vein of iron in the fisherman’s daughter and occasionally, it showed itself raw and untempered.

Then Morrigan remembered that Flora had, in all seriousness, requested to be turned into a fish the previous day. With a scoff and a sufficiently mocking laugh, the witch shook off her astonishment and stalked away across the deck. 

Alistair almost said:  _ Maric led that rebellion, didn’t he? The one that expelled the Orlesians and liberated Ferelden? _

The thought hovered, part-formed like a clay vase, on the tip of his tongue.

“Maric led that rebellion, didn’t he?” 

Although it was posed as a question, Alistair knew very well that it was fact. Every child in Ferelden who had received even the most basic of educations knew about the Marician uprising: it was the first piece of lore they ever learnt. He had heard the tale a dozen times: each time, the mention of each father made his stomach clench with a resentful fascination.

Flora had not received the basics of a Fereldan education. She knew vaguely that another country - Orlais, or some other - had invaded and occupied the land several decades prior, and that eventually they were expelled. The young rebels who had fought in that war were now in their grey hairs. No men of Herring had taken part in Ferelden’s defence: invaders were not interested in fishing villages. 

“Maric, the old king,” she said, remembering what Alistair had told her on tbe Redcliffe boundary. “Did he?”

He nodded. “It took him three years. To drive out the Orlesians. I wonder how long it’ll take us to end the Blight.” 

“I hope not three years.” Flora looked alarmed. “I want to be back in Herring by summer.” 

Alistair chose to ignore her last words and focused instead on the earlier part of her statement.

“The first Blight lasted  _ two hundred years.” _

Flora could not count to two hundred, but she knew that it was exponentially greater than  _ twelve.  _ She grimaced, leaning her elbows on the rail and peering into the ridged slate-grey waters. 

“It won’t take us that long. We might not even need the dwarves and elves. There’s lots of powerful mages at the Circle. I think a dozen of them could defeat the Archdemon.”

“Speaking of.” 

Alistair raised his arm before them, finger angled above the sloped peak of the helm. “Look.” 

Flora turned with some trepidation. Sure enough, near the far northern shore of the lake - as yet, no taller than her little finger - rose Ferelden’s largest Circle Tower. It took up the largest islet of a moon-shaped archipelago; the two horns curved out into the lake in a broken crescent. Even at a distance, the features of Tevinter architecture could be seen: the steep slopes of the support columns, the concentric medley of arches and the overly ambitious height. It stood silhouetted against the honeyed hues of sunset; a dark and chiding finger.

Flora gazed at it with an odd fascination: the last time she had approached the tower from the outside, her view had been obscured by the runed bars of a mage cage. Her Templar escort had made a comment along the lines of  _ welcome home;  _ at the time, she had not realised that he was being sarcastic. 

Alistair eyed her in a manner he hoped was not too overt; attempting to chip away at the pristine enamel of her face to glean some sense of the emotion below. He gave up after a few moments - it was like divining from saltwater - and cleared his throat. She looked at him, a line of hair wound around the end of her finger.

“How does it feel? Seeing the Circle again.” 

Flora was silent, her brow creasing. The end of her fingertip had drained to the bloodless white of bone.

“I can’t describe it,” she said, quiet and bemused. “I… I don’t know. They won’t try and make me stay, will they?”

“No,” Alistair replied, before his sister-warden had even finished speaking. “No,  _ definitely _ not. You’re part of the Grey Wardens now. Not even the Templar-Commander has the authority to reverse that.”

He gently freed the end of her finger, restoring the flow of blood. Flora was not sure that she truly felt like a Grey Warden either. She had only been part of the Order for a month before the defeat at Ostagar; and all she had done during those weeks was mend the wounded in the infirmary and purge the excess taint from Duncan in the evenings. According to the stories told by the more venerable brothers, Grey Wardens were merciless in both life and combat: they ventured into Ferelden’s foulest places to hunt Darkspawn with bloody and single-minded zeal. Flora could only claim a few engagements with Darkspawn; each more alarming than the last, and she had not slain a single one.

Still, she appreciated Alistair’s sentiment; though before she could say so, the sail angled itself to catch the full breath of the wind and the boat swung to the side. The captain’s hand guided the rudder, eyes bright with the prospect of soon disgorging his unwanted passengers. The half-light was just sufficient to discern a squat, stone building set back from the shoreline; a low stable annex suggested that it was an inn. 

“Ain’t going closer to that place,” the fisherman told them bluntly, his stare lost in shadow. “The mages put evil spells on the water: the boat’ll tip over and sink. Or the mast’ll fly up into the air and the sail’ll smother us.” 

The receding sun filled the sky with an artist’s palette of hues: apricot, peach and bright violet melting into each other like watercolour. In contrast, the meandering lowlands of the Bannorn lost their colour with each passing minute: hills, hedges and huts all a uniform shade of grey. 

The tavern had a small dock perched in the shallows; little more than a few planks of wood fixed to a set of submerged stumps. Such was Bardon’s eagerness to deposit his passengers that he had moored and shoved out the boarding plank in record time. 

“Thank you,” said Alistair to the fisherman’s back: the captain was already hastening to pull up the plank and cast off. “For - taking- ”

The young man trailed off; the boat was already straining at its sole mooring, ready for departure. Flora wanted to watch the boat leave, but - against her wishes - her gaze kept wandering back to the tall, twilight-smudged outline of the Circle Tower. She did not know why it had such a lodestone effect; in an effort to ignore it, she physically turned her back on it. 

“Shit,” exclaimed her brother-warden, slapping his palms over his pockets in agitation. “I think I left Teagan’s coin-purse on the boat.” 

“Oh.” Flora replied vaguely: they had survived the first weeks of their journey well enough without coin. “We can find a pigsty to sleep in. Or a haystack. Can you eat hay?”

Alistair did not want to sleep in pigsties, nor eat hay. The temperature had fallen with the sun’s descent and the evening damp had settled across the back of his neck like a clammy palm. Desolate, he watched the boat’s stern diminish as it ploughed through the choppy waters. 

“Forget something?” 

Morrigan laughed: leaning against the remains of a stone wall. Her yellow eyes caught the last light of the sun: they gleamed like lanterns in the ripening dusk. 

Alistair ground his teeth. He was not in the mood for the witch’s snide humour in addition to a night sleeping under the stars. Then, to his surprise, Morrigan extended her hand and let something leathery drop to the wet grass. It was the coin purse, still heavy with the bann’s coin. 

“Thoughtless to leave this on the railing,” crowed Morrigan triumphantly; her painted lips curving upwards. “Aren’t you glad that at least  _ one  _ of us is observant, hm? How fortunate we are that my eyes are competent.”

“Thank you,” interjected Flora, bending down to retrieve the purse when it became clear that Alistair was struggling to express gratitude. “Now we won’t need to find a haystack.” 

“And we can get dinner,” he added, suffused with relief. “I’m  _ starving.”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we’re almost at the Circle - I thought it made a lot more sense to go by boat from Redcliffe, but I also wanted to have the tavern stop beforehand. I love making up the Alamarri stories that Flora tells Alistair! Though the thing about standing stones being traitors was inspired by actual English folklore. I also like showing how Morrigan is gradually - very gradually! - accepting her role as a member of the party. Ha, also they have no idea about the shitshow that awaits them at the Circle D:
> 
> In OOC news, I’ve started my new job! It’s amazing but a LOT lower key than my old job haha. I know that’s just the way things work in Wales but I have a decade of London crazy work ethic instilled in me!


	63. The Dragon’s End

The tavern was shaped like an L, and had two floors; somehow, it still managed to appear squat, as though a great palm had squashed it into the side of the hill. The walls were a tumble of grey stone; the roof a collection of mismatched tile. In an effort to disguise the building’s general dilapidation, someone - most likely the innkeeper - had plastered over the peeling wood. It had not entirely worked: white curls littered the ground beneath the rotting shutters. Despite the air of neglect, a lantern blazed encouragingly above the doorway and each low window was painted amber with hearthlight. 

The inn’s name-sign hung from a purpose-built gallows near the small dock. While Alistair gathered their belongings, Flora wandered up to the swinging board. There were four words scribed there - two long, and two short - but she could not decipher them.

“What’s it say?” 

Alistair managed to tuck his sister-warden’s staff beneath his loaded arms: Flora had wandered happily off the boat without it. As he did so, he vaguely remembered a time when he had not even dared to touch the length of beech, viewing it instead with the utmost pursed-lipped suspicion. Such a sentiment seemed ridiculous now: he felt a retrospective embarrassment at his own misgivings.

“It says- ” He frowned, brow furrowed at the swaying sign. The image had long since decayed into flakes, but the letters were still visible.  _ “‘The Dragon’s End.’  _ Odd name for an inn.” 

“It’s a good omen.” Flora, like most fishermen, had a healthy vein of superstition. “It means that we’re going to kill the Archdemon by Satinalia.” 

He laughed. “Satinalia’s next month!” 

She was undeterred. “By mackerel season, then.” 

Morrigan, who had no interest in sleeping anywhere infused with the smell of ale and unwashed patron, melted into the shadow like a late dream. Alistair and Flora, after a brief and whispered exchange, hid her staff in a tangle of long grass beneath the windowsill. The assault at Redcliffe, the attack of the undead and the possessed child, had proved a temporary distraction. Now, they remembered all too well that they had a price on their heads courtesy of Mac Tir. 

“We should try and avoid attracting any attention,” Alistair repeated as they approached the entrance. Based on the muffled chatter and enthusiastic rattle of tankards, the tavern was hosting a fair number. “Hopefully this place is isolated enough that they haven’t heard about the bounty.” 

“Mm,” Flora agreed solemnly, not realising that she had inadvertently seen the  _ Grey Warden: Wanted!  _ poster while finding a hiding place for the staff. The bounty had blown down from where it had been stuck, and trodden into the damp grass by oblivious patrons. The inked symbol of the griffon was lost to the mud, and the demand itself she could not read.

Alistair glanced sideways at her; face lit in several places by the lantern hanging in the porch. Even the waxed glow of candlelight could not soften the acute artistry of the features: cut with exquisite precision. 

“I think we need to get you a big hat, my dear,” he said dryly, reaching for the iron loop. 

“Yes.” Flora was intrigued: she had never tried on a hat before. “To store crabs in.”

He hid a grin, twisting the iron ring and pulling the door towards him. The frame was warped from age: the door protested even as it yielded. A wedge of firelight widened to reveal the clutter of a rustic tavern. Chairs and tables were clustered in haphazard groups, the hearth bordered by a splintering tiled pattern of lilies. Several raucous guests were making enough noise for two dozen: they seemed to be mid-way through a drinking contest. A dog - part Mabari, from the shape of its ears - lay sprawled in front of the flames. It raised its head as the young man’s broad-shouldered brawn filled much of the doorframe, hackles prickling. 

Grateful that most of the patrons were distracted by the increasing intoxication of the competitors, Alistair glanced around. For a single, electric instant, he thought that Mac Tir himself was standing behind the bar - then he realised that the greying dark hair and sallow skin belonged to another burly man in his fifties. The innkeeper had his back turned, a grubby cloth in one hand and a tankard in the other.

“You youngins’ here for a tumble or a tankard?” 

A low, flat roughness underlined the man’s voice. Mac Tir had disguised his own humble origins with learned refinement; though the roots of his youthful cadence were still there. Back at Ostagar Flora had guessed that the general had once a commoner from the north before he had finished his first sentence. 

Alistair felt a flush creep up from beneath the collar of his shirt.

“We’d… we’d like a room,” he said, impressed and relieved by the steadiness of his voice. “And some dinner, if you’ve anything hot left.” 

The weight of his coinpurse could have bought out the upper floor of the tavern; yet it did not even occur to Alistair to ask for two rooms. He had grown so accustomed to his sister-warden’s presence at night - first separated by his own stacked armour, then by six inches of air, and eventually by nothing but their clothing - that the thought of now putting a  _ wall _ between them seemed irrational. 

“Think I’ve some stew,” the innkeeper said begrudgingly after a moment. “Don’t know if I’ve any clean bowls.” 

“They don’t need to be clean,” offered Flora helpfully, whose belly was rumbling.

There was a lull in the conversation behind them; the sound of the hearth gnawing through a log suddenly became audible. Alistair had a suspicion as to the cause of the sudden silence, and a subtle half-turn of the head confirmed it. Flora was oblivious to the eyes that had come to settle on her - most likely, she had learnt to ignore them - and was instead focused on the prospect of dinner. 

Alistair remembered what Duncan had said to him on the last evening of his life: quiet and with a hollow rattle of melancholy. 

_ Look after each other, won’t you?  _

_ What do you mean,  _ Alistair had asked, disconcerted by their commander’s expression. 

_ You’ll find out soon, my boy. _

Alistair understood now what his dead mentor had meant. He turned without subtlety this time, letting his height and the size of his arm send a wordless warning. There was no need to tilt the handle of his blade towards the light: his unarmoured body was weapon enough. A wary array of eyes surveyed him, then dropped back to their tankards.

“Stew,” announced the innkeeper; bowls splattering as they landed on the wooden bar. “It’s beef.” 

Alistair took the initiative, gathering up their belongings. He headed purposefully towards a table that was partially obscured by the staircase leading to the upper level; Flora retrieved both bowls and followed. 

The stew was not beef, but - whatever it was - it was not bad. Alistair devoured his in a few minutes, mopping up the dregs with a chunk of grainy bread. He then noticed that Flora was swirling her spoon around the edge of the bowl: brow furrowed in three places. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked through a mouthful of bread, letting his own spoon rest. “Don’t like the taste?”

Flora’s frown deepened: she never rejected food, regardless of what it tasted like. Instead of responding immediately, her eyes slid to the square of glass set in the wall. The window had the greyish navy of a new bruise: night was swiftly seizing ownership of the sky. 

“Do you think they’ll be alright?” 

She did not need to elaborate further: Alistair knew full well what she meant. 

_ Nightfall: the assault on Redcliffe begins once again.  _

Flora’s pale eyes searched his face for reassurance that preceded the parting of his lips. He met her gaze without blinking, his reply steady and confident. 

“They’ll be fine. Leliana’s there, and the Qunari - Sten - too. Trust me, the enemy will wish they never left the castle.” 

Flora slid the spoon around the curved lip of the bowl, watching the pieces of meat slither over each other in the greasy broth. 

“Maybe you should have stayed too,” she said, though she did not sound convinced. “The bann said that you made the biggest difference of all last night.” 

“Well, Duncan said that we had to stay together,” Alistair replied, and the lightness of his tone did not match how closely he watched for her response. “Me and you.”

Although Flora’s face remained opaque as ever, the spoon hesitated in its rotation around the bowl. 

“Mm.” 

There was a distance in the sound: an breathy echo of wistfulness. Alistair felt the stew weighing down his stomach: he wished suddenly that he had not eaten so quickly. Then his spirits rose like a flock of birds from a roof; Flora’s hand had made its way to his arm, the slender stems of her fingers curling over his sleeve.

“Me and you,” she repeated as though it were a prayer, solemn and earnest. “Duncan was right.” 

To his surprise, Alistair did not respond with the flippancy that had grown as a rebuke to the Templar monastery’s determined sombreness. A light-hearted remark withered unspoken in his throat. The trivial grin was set aside. His eyes settled on her face and stayed there: he made no effort to hide his stare, nor mask the intensity of it. He felt as though he was being drawn out to sea by a tide that he had no wish to resist. She gazed back at him, oddly mesmerised: the restless hearthlight mirrored in the clear grey of her irises. 

“For yer room. Back passage. Try and keep it down, I got guests who need their sleep.” 

The iron key clattered onto the table between them; the sound breaking the stillness like a boot through ice. Flora blinked as though awoken from a dream. Alistair wondered wildly if Duncan’s spirit was enjoying some sly, vindictive sport at their expense: sending interruptions in the form of old men. His sister-warden’s attention was sufficiently diverted, fingers closing around the length of iron. 

Their chamber was at the end of a short corridor: the door sat warped in its frame, and protested its opening. The rumble of their neighbour’s snores reverberated within the passage: Alistair hoped that the walls were thicker than the innkeeper had intimated. With a pack slung over each shoulder, he watched Flora tentatively insert the key; twisting it the wrong way before realising her mistake. When the lock groaned and gave way, she nudged the door open with a knee: key in one hand and her congealing stew in the other.

The chamber was more cramped than their room at the Dane’s Refuge in Lothering, with no hearth and a single shuttered window. The floorboards were partlu covered by a threadbare rug with its pattern trodden out. A small nightstand bore an ebbing candlestick and a pewter jug. There was a lone bed pushed against the wall, just wide enough for a pair to lie cheek by jowl. A chequered tangle of blankets rested at one end, accompanied by an aging sheepskin. 

“Huh,” said Alistair, depositing their belongings at the foot of the bed. “It’s me.”

Flora first looked at him, then followed the angle of his point. There was a small portrait on the wall: a cheap copy by a copper-artist of a famous original. Despite the clumsy strokes and inferior line work of the reproduction, the subject gazed out boldly, strong-jawed and tawny-headed. 

She was intrigued. “Why’s there a picture of you here?” 

He laughed, approaching the painting to inspect it more closely. It had not been placed wisely on the wall: opposite the window, half of its face was bleached out by sunlight. 

“It’s not actually me. It’s the old king.” 

The dimly lit room did not allow for closer inspection. Flora held up her hand, fingers gleaming as though dipped in the liquid fire of the forge. The diaphanous light fell across Maric Theirin’s face, and Ferelden’s most famous son seemed to smile at them. Flora looked at the king, then across at Alistair. She preferred her brother-warden’s face; it was no less proud, but somehow less arrogant. 

Alistair was silent, startled by the swiftness of his acknowledgement of the man who had fathered him. A week ago, he would have turned Maric’s confident half-smile to the wall, or shoved him beneath the bed before Flora could catch sight. There were a handful of people in Ferelden who knew that he was a Theirin, albeit one born on the wrong side of the sheets; and each had treated him differently once they learnt it. Even Duncan had insisted that Alistair accompany him during the recruitment drives, and kept him from the most dangerous missions. In contrast, his sister-warden had not cared; she did not really understand the significance of his parentage - or that he was now the sole Theirin in Ferelden - and she did not ask for clarification. He had asked her what the social hierarchy was in her home, and (after asking what  _ social hierarchy  _ meant), she had recited:  _ hook-maker, net-mender. Boat-builder. FISHERMAN.  _ There were no lords in Herring. 

“Maric,” she said vaguely, disinterested. “Hm.”

Alistair gazed at his father a moment longer, then turned away with an odd twisting in his gut. He was unsure whether it was apprehension or anticipation. 

Flora inspected the sheepskin on the bed, then let it drop and wandered across to the window. Night had swallowed the sky; an unveiled moon presided amidst a host of emerging stars. The white light polled between the hills and painted the west-facing trees silver; winter had stolen the gentle dusk of evening. She put her nose to the warped glass - it was cheaply made, and shifted in its frame - and peered out. The space before her eyes misted with her tangible breath: Flora erased it with her elbow. As the fog yielded, she caught sight of something buried in the darkness beyond the glass: a tangle of pale and indecipherable shapes. 

_ What’s that?  _ she thought, and unsurprisingly received no answer. 

The rear side of the tavern faced a grassy slope that led into the meandering topography of the Bannorn. The shadow had pooled at its base; the hillside cast darker than the starlit sky. Flora felt the window shift against the pressure of her forearm: she gave it an experimental nudge, and with only a little resistance it gave way. The frame swung outwards and she was hit with the cool slap of night air. 

Alistair looked around at the sudden chilly breeze to see his sister-warden clambering over the sill. This was not as alarming as it could have been: their room was on the ground floor. Still, his eyebrows rose to his hairline; gold meeting gold.

“Are you trying to escape?” 

“No. Ow.” Flora looked down as her sleeve caught on a splinter of wood. A red bead swelled on the tip of her finger and she lifted it to her mouth. “There’s something out here.” 

He watched her slither to the damp ground outside; the window was set low in the wall and it took little effort. The shadow leached the crimson from her hair; her braid hung heavy and ink-dark. With a swift glance to check that their key was still in the lock, Alistair crossed the chamber in four strides. 

A fine mist was blowing in off the lake; the moonlight turned it into a billow of spun sugar that left the skin cool and slick. Flora paid it no attention - it was not  _ rain,  _ but merely  _ drizzle  _ \- and ventured towards the grassy incline. The pale shapes clarified as she neared; her eyes grew more accustomed to the shadow with each step. 

At first, she did not understand what she was looking at. There were a series of long, bow-shaped white growths emerging from the earth: some in pairs, some alone, and each the breadth of her brother-warden’s arm. Other pieces seemed to be buried in the hillside: they emerged from places where Calenhad’s weather had chewed away the grass. An archipelago of pale, knuckle-shaped objects sprouted from the mud along a curved gradient. 

Then she turned to the side and saw a broken jawbone wedged alongside a fence post; rising almost to the height of her chin. The jawbone was decorated with a lopsided array of serrated teeth, no less intimidating for the gaps in their number.

_ It’s a skeleton,  _ she thought in sudden realisation.  _ Isn’t it?  _

The response was unimpressed.

** _You’re a mender. You ought to know bone when you see it. _ **

_ I know bone,  _ Flora replied with some indignation.  _ I’ve never seen a dragon skeleton before. I’ve never seen anything to do with them before.  _

She reached up to gingerly touch one of the teeth. Fereldan rain had not worn away its viciousness: it was as sharp as a knife-point. Flora eyed the jawbone with some misgiving - there were very many teeth there, certainly more than twelve - and retreated several feet.

_ You could gut a whale with one of them. _

Meanwhile, Alistair had tried in vain to fit himself through the window, but the length of his limbs and broadness of his shoulder was making it difficult. Not wanting to risk breaking anything that they would then have to pay for - Flora could mend him, but not the window-frame - he leaned forward and spoke into the shadow.

“I’m coming out through the door. Won’t be a moment.” 

He disappeared, and Flora heard the echo of his passage across the room. She returned her attention to the dragon’s skeleton, turning her head slowly from left to right. The peculiar name of the inn -  _ The Dragon’s End -  _ suddenly made sense: the dragon must have crashed into the hill and died there. Over the centuries, the skeleton had been reclaimed by nature: brambles twined around the jutting ribs as tree roots broke what weapons could not. Only part of the skeleton remained visible, the rest buried in the damp soil of the hillside. 

_ Why did it crash into the hill? Do dragons fall out of the sky when they die of old age? How long do dragons live?  _

Her general was irritated.  ** _Stop bombarding us. You’ve never shown any interest in dragons until now. _ **

_ But -  _

** _You should be asking questions about the one dragon that matters: the Archdemon. _ **

Flora did not want to ask, or even think about, that colourless alien eye; or the strange silhouette that she had glimpsed behind the cloud in her Fade-conjuration of Herring. She counted the number of knuckle-shaped stumps that made up the tail - there were twice times twelve, and another two. They emerged from the grass like large, very pale mushrooms.

“Maker’s Breath.” 

Alistair rounded the side of the building. He stopped short in astonishment, performing the same left-right head turn as Flora. 

“Look at that. I’ve never seen a dragon’s skeleton before.” 

Flora was impressed at the speed of her brother-warden’s identification. He approached the remnants of the ribcage, sliding a hand up the curved white bone. 

“How big do you think it was?” she asked, watching him test the strength of a rib with a shove. Despite a crack running its full length, the bone did not move an inch. Flora had seen her brother lift the wheel of their loaded cart from a rut with little effort: the bone must have been as strong as forged steel. 

Alistair appraised it, taking in the length of the tail and the height of the rib. 

“The size of a barn, maybe?” 

“Do you think the Archdemon will be bigger?” 

He thought about it for a moment - no one had seen the Archdemon in person, not even Duncan. “Probably. Yes, I’d imagine so. A lot bigger.” 

He then glanced sideways at his sister-warden. A line sunk itself into the smooth white span of Flora’s forehead as she contemplated this - then, she made a northern  _ eh  _ sound in the back of her throat, and gave an ambivalent shrug.

“Ain’t bigger than the Waking Sea.”

_ And the Waking Sea is the most dangerous thing in Thedas. _

She felt a low sigh of frustration wash up against the curve of her skull. 

Alistair, unable to resist, was hoisting his way from one rib to another; the muscle in his arms straining. Flora, impressed, watched him navigate several overhanging bones in a row; grunting as he swung the mass of his body along. She was not tall enough to reach the curved upper part of the ribcage. She also had a suspicion that she no longer had much strength in her arms: it had been four years since she had hauled a boat up the gritty grey slope of a northern beach. 

“Six in a row,” her brother-warden said, landing proud and breathless on the damp grass. “Not bad.” 

Flora gazed at him with mingled admiration and jealousy. Skeins of damp hair clung to her cheekbones; as though the contours of the skin had been outlined with an ink brush. 

“I need to borrow the lay-sister’s arms,” she replied, recalling how the taut sinew had flexed when Leliana drew the bowstring to her ear. “I bet she could do six.” 

He grinned at her through the shadows: the white teeth set stark against the tawny jaw. 

“She could probably do a whole gymnastics display up there.” 

Flora did not know what a gymnastics display was, but her brother-warden’s smile was infectious: warm and vital. The green flecks in his eyes stood out in the moonlight, bright as splinters of glass. She smiled back at him - so swift that he almost missed it - and then, inexplicably made shy, dropped her gaze to her boots. His eyes were still on her; Flora felt a prickle of heat rise to the surface of her skin like a rash. 

“It’s late, my dear,” he said softly, the words snaking between the old bones. 

“Mm,” Flora agreed, her voice equally hushed. Her wet eyelashes were clumped together in sooty triangles.

“We ought to - ”  _ Get some sleep _ . “Go to bed.” 

“Yes,” she said. “Please.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, this is a bit of a random tangent and one I totally made up, I just liked the idea of this half buried dragon skeleton emerging from the side of a hill! I think it’s a nice reminder that they’re eventually going to be facing a dragon. Also, I wanted to emphasise how inexperienced and young they both are - Alistair is twenty! TWENTY! Though I actually feel he’s more like 23-24. But anyway, I thought it was a nice moment of immature levity - wandering around the dragon bones, testing their strength. He’s definitely just hung off those bones to impress Flora, lol. I also wanted to emphasise the chemistry between them both; the sexual attraction is at odds with their mutual shy formality lol.


	64. A Room For Us

A silver coin of a moon surveyed the Bannorn from above, surrounded by a court of winking stars. It was a cold and cloudless night: the mist from the lake settled between the hills and the sky was steeped in blackness like strong Antivan tea. Some of those who dwelt on Calenhad’s northern shores noticed that the Circle Tower was shrouded in darkness long past sunset. The wreath of lamplight that usually circled its crenellated peak had not ignited: nor were the windows picked out in smudges of amber light. The absence of illumination prompted a few curious glances but little else - the men and women of the farmland chose to ignore the Circle’s disturbing presence as much as possible. Eventually, the nip of the wind and a fine, misting drizzle drove even the mildly curious indoors.

The patrons of the  _ Dragon’s End  _ did not care about Kinloch Hold either: their minds were fixed on the bottom of their tankard, or on the clinging lure of sleep. In the wake of the tavern, beside the submerged bones that had given the inn its name; the two Warden-recruits stood on the wet grass and gazed wordlessly at one another. Standing within the gentle bow of the ribcage, she could have been carved from pale marble: a Tevinter statue uncovered amidst the foliage of an overgrown garden. Her damp shirt clung to the swell of a breast, white and round as the inner curve of a seashell. 

Alistair wondered if the collision between his galloping heart and his ribcage was audible beyond his chest. He thought that she must be able to hear it: it echoed like the driving beat of a war drum. His body felt taut and yet full of agitation, like a bowstring drawn back past the ear. In an instant all the fevered fantasies of the past - the milkmaid, the plump-cheeked priestess, the brothel whore hanging from a Denerim window - became obsolete: the silly fancies of youth, meaningless as dust. He marvelled at how he had spent weeks pining over the priestess who had kissed him after indulging in Chantry portwine: now, he could not even summon a vague memory of her face. He had thought he had known lust, but knew now that it was naught but childish fancy: fleeting and flimsy. 

Now, true desire had clenched him in its adult fist: squeezed him until the air had fled his lungs and left him dizzy. He had never known a need like it; all-consuming and ever-growing; more urgent even than the first hunger he felt after his Joining. A heat flared in his belly, like a fire stoked by a dozen vigorous pokers: it curled pulsing tendrils around his thighs and sunk them deep into the core of his being. His subconscious eye searched the mossy hillside: looking for a surface. 

“Eh, it’s higher from this side.”

The soft, indignant growl of Flora’s voice punctuated his daze. She had crossed to their window: the uneven landscape placed the ledge just above her waist. A half-hearted lunge failed to get her anywhere; more ropes of hair escaping the braid. 

_ Right,  _ Alistair reminded himself, hazily.  _ We have a room. A room just for us.  _

_ It has four walls, and a door. A door that locks. No interruptions. _

“Help,” Flora entreated, infuriated by both her lack of inches and upper body strength.

Alistair moved towards her; the world reduced to a collection of background clutter. The tavern, a blur of grey against the darkness, served merely as ambience for his sister-warden; the window a frame for her slender body. Alistair was shocked at the swiftness of his fall: he had not spared a thought for their sworn purpose all evening.

His only consolation was that Flora appeared equally distracted. She had been the first to move towards their chamber; and was now fidgeting impatiently at the window. Alistair did not think that her haste was spurred by a desire to escape the drizzle: but rather, the need to find them both privacy.

A nagging whisper slid past Alistair’s ear: reminding him that he and Flora were still only on terms of tentative friendliness during daylit hours, and that they had never acknowledged in words the desire that had flared between them. He did not even know if Flora still pined after their dead commander; or if the imprint of his kiss clung stubbornly to her full and solemn mouth. 

In that moment, Alistair did not care: ignoring the voice of reason and restraint. He crossed the grass in three broad strides; his hands finding her hips just as they had done on the fisherman’s boat earlier that day. His thumbs rested on the round bone, palm spreading over the gentle valley between the abdomen and the hip. He was startled by the warmth of her: the skin warm and yielding beneath his fingers. 

_ Of course,  _ Alistair thought hazily to himself.  _ She might look like a Tevinter marble, but she’s not a statue. She’s a girl. Flesh and blood. Maker, when did I last breathe? _

Lightheaded, he lifted her onto the windowsill and did not release her. He felt the thick woollen waistband of her leggings brush against his fingertips: simultaneously taunt and invitation. Flora’s elevation onto the ledge closed the difference between their heights: she passed her palm gently over the tousled hair atop his head. It was an innocuous gesture but he heard a half-groan escape from his throat, instinctive and involuntary. Flora smiled at him. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair tangled: from her appearance alone, they could have spent the past hour intertwined and panting in the wet grass. He almost said her name but managed to restrain himself. An utterance might bring back a dose of unwanted reality: that they were siblings by blood-ritual, that they were little more than tentative new friends, and that neither of them knew what they were doing. 

Alistair breathed in plain soap and rain; and beneath, the warm, clean scent of her body. He mimicked the movement she had made on the boat earlier; leaning into her so that she could feel the press of his body. This was a more compelling contact now; his grip urgent and arousal undeniable. One of her palms was wedged on the windowsill to keep her balance, the other clung to the back of his neck; her leg claimed the hard muscle of his waist. Yet they could do little other than half-embrace each other: the angle and the confines of the window prevented anything more intimate. 

“I’ll go round the front, sweetheart,” he said hoarsely in Flora’s ear, breath hot on her skin. “I’ll be quick.” 

Flora nodded, disorientated. The hollow of her throat had a liquid sheen: despite the chill of the winter night, she was sweaty. After a reluctant disentanglement, Alistair cast her a final glance - cursing the length and breadth of his body that prevented him from joining her  _ now  _ \- then set off around the perimeter of the tavern. 

The evening lost its starry lustre with his absence. Her brother-warden’s bold, brawny frame and sunlit colouring had burnished the dull evening air. Flora, still propped on the window ledge, felt like a punctured water-pouch. She let out a long breath in an attempt to calm the frantic hammer of her heart, then fell backwards into the chamber in terror as a screech of disapproval rang inside her ear.

** _This is not the time to be distracted!_ **

_ I’m not distracted!  _ Flora retorted indignantly, flat on her back on the floorboards.  _ It won’t do any harm if we - if we -  _

** _The more time you spend indulging your CARNAL LUST in the mortal world, the less you spend practising with us. _ **

To her annoyance, she could not think of a counter-argument. Her general, as much as she did not wish to admit it, had a point. Flora had not learnt how to wield her barrier in the Circle, she had been taught in the Fade with the grit of a conjured Herring beach beneath her feet.

** _Besides, _ ** came the sly and pointed epilogue.  ** _You swore an oath at your ‘Joining’ to end the Blight. _ **

_ Yes, but -  _

** _You swore it to Duncan Rivaini. Or has that name ceased to bear meaning? _ **

Flora was speechless. She stared up at the wooden beam that bisected the ceiling for several long moments. Their commander rose to fill the eye of her mind, the face weary and creased like a folded letter. She had witnessed the ravages inflicted by the taint at close quarters: the spread of dark veins beneath the skin, the sallow undertone to the tawny flesh. She knew that the sclera of his eyes had a yellow cast; though the irises were as sharp and clear as a man two decades younger. Duncan had hidden the deterioration of body and mind from the rest of the Wardens: as his mender for a month, Flora had seen it first hand. 

_ You ought to sleep more,  _ she had told him one evening, full of youth’s sanctimonious reproach.  _ It’s the body’s natural healer. _

There was a note of resignation to his laugh, the dark eyes still humourous despite their shadowed ring. 

_ I don’t sleep, qalbi. And you’re my healer. I place no stock in this ailing body, but I have faith in you. _

Flora had fallen silent, her brow furrowed.

_ But I can’t help you sleep,  _ she had said eventually, apologetic.  _ I’m sorry.  _

He had touched the rich, burgundy fall of hair, marvelling at the new steadiness of his hand. Flora had already withdrawn her daily dose of the taint: loaning humanity to a man who ought to have made his final stand in the Deep Roads some time ago. Despite what the bards might once have sung, the truth was that the life of a Grey Wardens was not glorious: it was lonely, and bone-wearying, and foul to the core. The creeping decay eroded flesh and soul until nothing remained except the Archdemon’s high, oscillating whine within a broken husk. 

_ No matter,  _ he replied, the faint inflection of Rivain colouring the words.  _ You bring me a peace I’ve not known in decades. _

The memory rang resonant in her skull: so lucid that she could almost taste the smoking lantern in her throat. Flora’s heart sank like an anchor, settling somewhere near her stomach. She pushed herself slowly to her feet; standing amidst their spilling packs and a tangle of Alistair’s armour. 

The heated anticipation in Flora’s veins from earlier had evaporated; she felt flat and faintly bewildered. Unsure what to do, she wandered a circle within the rigid constraints of their chamber; then stopped and stared at the faded face of the old king. The arrogant, handsome features prompted a flicker of recognition: she assumed that it was because of their similarity to Alistair. There was no possible situation by which she could have met Maric Theirin: kings did not frequent fishing villages. 

Her brother-warden had not yet made his way around the building and through the tavern. Flora wondered if perhaps he had become lost. She sat on the edge of the bed; then took off her boots and trousers. In a sudden fit of melancholic pique, she threw herself into the mattress, ungainly as a sack of potatoes.

** _ADOLESCENT DRAMATICS _ ** sneered her general.  ** _HA! _ **

Flora pulled the blanket over her head. 

Meanwhile, Alistair’s delay was not due to disorientation, but inadvertent distraction. He had reached the tavern entrance in no time; the blood surging hot and expectant in his veins. His mind was seized wholly by his sister-warden: how warm and pliant she had been in his arms; how misleading her cold, unapproachable beauty. It was as though Flora had sunk her slender, bitten-nailed fingers into the openings of his skull: he could think of nothing else.

Unfortunately, as soon as he stepped into the aura of the tavern hearth, he was ambushed by an indignant drunk. A bottle was waved in his face, then slammed down onto the nearest table with a splatter of droplets.

“Of all the inconsiderate - bloody - mages -  _ hic!  _ Waste of - bloody -  _ time.” _

Alistair was not accustomed to flinching: his height and broad shoulders prevented it. He stared down at the florid-faced man, who was now leaning against a table with the bottle clamped in his teeth. A stream of angry, slurred invective was interrupted by equally fierce gulps.

“They - think they’re so -  _ clever. So superior.  _ Wasting - my time! Making me a  _ fool.  _ Hope the Maker -  _ hic!-  _ sets their bloody tower on fire!” 

Alistair had been about to avoid the inebriated merchant - his sister-warden was waiting for him - but mention of the Circle drew his attention. He hesitated halfway through his evasion, then turned back towards the resentful drunk.

“What did you say about the Circle?”

The man shot him a beady, belligerent look from the tail of his eye. He was slumped between the bench and the floor, the front of his coat sodden with ale. 

“Those sly fuckers ordered three dozen phials of frog liver oil from me. Spent a month sourcing it, went to deliver - and the damned boatman wouldn’t take me across! Says the Circle ain’t accepting visitors.” 

He took another resentful gulp, ale dribbling down the furrows that framed his chin.

“Cost me a bloody fortune, that liver oil. And what in the fel am I meant to do with it now?!”

Alistair felt deranged. He could not believe that he had let himself become delayed by an irate salesman. Muttering some half-hearted commiserations, he sidestepped the slumped figure and headed for the back passage. 

The tavern’s rooms were spaced at intervals along a dimly lit corridor: their room was at the furthest end. Determined to prevent further delay, Alistair avoided the stare of a passing elf - if his resemblance to Maric did not draw the eye, the size of his frame did instead - and closed the length of the corridor in a few eager strides. Astonished by his own assurance, he slid the key home and swung open the door. 

The chamber was cold and somehow more cramped than before; their overspilling packs claiming half the floorboards. The window was still open; the air nipped at the exposed stretches of skin. There was no hearth to provide either heat or light: a lone candle did little to stave off the darkness.

At first Alistair had no idea where his sister-warden was. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he noticed the hump of blankets on the bed. He gazed at it for several long heartbeats; and then took a deep and steadying breath. Leaving the key turned in the lock, Alistair crossed to the window and eased the frame back into the warped wooden casing, shutting out the miserable dampness of a Fereldan winter night. He then went to the narrow bed and sat on the edge of the mattress, ignoring the protests of the bedstead. After removing his boots, Alistair let his palm settle on the blanket-veiled lump; rubbing the contour of his sister-warden’s narrow back. He wondered what had transpired to cause such a sea-change in Flora’s mood. 

“Flora,” he said, and then: “Flo.” 

The hump of blankets made a northern grunt: one that Alistair was not yet fluent enough to decipher. He did not reply, but continued the slow glide of his palm. The young man was astonished by his own assurance: he had not hesitated to enter the chamber, or sit on the bed, or set his palm on the small of her back. He had embraced her in the damp grass behind the tavern with the confidence of a man possessing a decade of experience. 

Alistair could claim no grounds for such certitude: he had never taken anyone to bed, nor even gone beyond a kiss. He had long since known that his first time with a woman would be an amateurish fumbling, punctuated by hesitation and fuelled by nerves. He did not expect that he would even enjoy it.

_ And yet, with her. When I’m with her. Touching her, holding her.  _

_ My - friend? Companion? Sister? Maker, not that.  _

The noise from the tavern was a distinct and diminishing murmur: most of the patrons had started an unsteady walk home. Alistair let his palm travel from the nape of Flora’s neck to the base of her spine: the length of her narrow back defined beneath the blanket. 

_ It’s an instinct. _

“Flora,” he said gently, a question in the word. 

Flora replied in true northern manner: not in words, but in gesture. Alistair saw a hand emerge from beneath the threadbare wool, fingers curling through the air. Alistair reached for it, covering her palm with his, and then eased himself beneath the blanket to join her. The bed gave a groan of protest. The mattress was narrow in proportion: he could feel the contour of Flora’s body against him. He hoped that he had not just squashed her into the wall. The cool and haughty beauty was masked by shadow and he could not see her expression. Working by touch instead, his thumb traced the delicate contour of her skull; the smooth and unlined canvas of her forehead. A pimple had emerged just above her eyebrow and this somehow made her more human: a girl prone to spots like any other adolescent. 

_ She’s not frowning,  _ he thought, relieved.

The blanket over their heads created a space that soon grew warm with their exhaled breath. The confines of the mattress did not allow for breathing room: Alistair felt each of Flora’s inhalations against his chest. Her thigh lay supine on his; cheek to his shoulder. He waited for the usual nervous agitation to coarse through the channels of his body, but then was not surprised at its absence. 

_ Instinct.  _

“Alistair.” 

Flora’s voice emerged muffled, as though she were speaking underwater.

“Flora.” 

Alistair lifted the blanket an inch so that the blackness became a more diaphanous grey. Flora lifted her chin and turned her face towards his. The moonlight poured silver into her pale iris and made it a mirror.

“Duncan’s dead.” 

“Yes,” he replied, simply. 

“And everyone thinks that we’re traitors.” 

“Yes.” 

“But,” Flora continued, with the pragmatism that had drawn him through the morass of grief and rage after Ostagar. “We ain’t been ate by the Archdemon yet.”

Alistair laughed, the sound caught and folded by the blanket. He kissed her smooth forehead, and Flora smiled at him, the cloud of melancholy breaking apart before his eyes. He thought about kissing her again - perhaps somewhere other than the forehead - and then decided to smile back at her instead. The sudden; urgent desire that had seized them both in the rear garden had subsided, for now. 

“How would you say it,” Flora continued, fingers wandering the length of his forearm. “In your way.  _ We have not eaten by the Archdemon yet.  _ Been eated by? Eaten?”

He snorted, amused by her mangling of his articulate southern dialect.

“Been eaten by,” he confirmed, watching her face as she eyed the impressive topography of the muscle. “I like your northern way better.”

Flora thought that the northern way of doing  _ everything  _ was better, but did not say so. 

“They talked like southerners in the Circle too,” she explained, with a flutter of her fingers that equated  _ southerner  _ to  _ sophisticated.  _ “Even though the Circle IS IN THE NORTH _ .  _ No one liked the way I spoke. ‘ _ Do not say ‘it ain’t.’  _ Do not say  _ ‘Dunno.’” _

“Well, I like it very much. Oh,” Alistair remembered the belligerent merchant, belching ale fumes and resentment. “Speaking of the Circle, I met a man by the bar who’d come from there. Says they wouldn’t let him in to sell his - frog livers, or something. What do they use frog livers at the Circle for?”

“Dunno,” said Flora, who had never been enrolled in any alchemical classes due to her perceived lack of literacy and ability. “Maybe the senior mages eat them.” 

“Ha!” 

Until recently, Alistair had never been comfortable with silence. He saw a pause as a void that needed filling: with humour, or sarcasm, or - commonly - self-depreciation. Flora, conversely, did not care about silence: she did not waste air on words merely for the sake of it. Her ease with the stillness between them helped him to grow accustomed to it: and then, to appreciate it. He listened to her breathing as they lay together like tightly packed sardines, while the last threads of conversation tied themselves up in the tavern nearby. The wind bit at the window but could not enter; he could hear the long grasses whispering to each other outside. Half-submerged by shadow and soil, the broken bones of the dragon were luminous in the moonlight. 

After a few minutes, Alistair realised that his sister-warden had fallen asleep. Her mouth was slightly open, her bitten nails curling into her palms. The pimple on her forehead had vanished; subdued by the strange energy that coursed through her body like a tide.

_ Goodnight,  _ he thought, pulling the blanket more closely around them.  _ Sweet dreams.  _

Unfortunately, Flora’s spirits had other plans. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha oh no, Flora gets cockblocked by her own memories! And so does Alistair by proxy! Oh well, probably for the best - they haven’t even talked about their mutual attention yet so putting the brakes on is a good thing.
> 
> I just want to clarify that even though I describe Alistair as FUCKING HUGE, I don’t mean huge as in looking like a broodmother (!!!), I mean, he’s Henry Cavill big, lol. The broodmother!! Imagine!!! Hahaha 
> 
> I also wanted to drop a few hints in there that things aren’t well at the Circle - all the lights are out, they’re not accepting any visitors - but poor oblivious Alistair and Flora have no idea about the utter raving shitshow they’re going to walk into tomorrow.


	65. The Wing In The Water

_ The beach at Herring curved between two vast horns of stone: each taller than a cathedral and cut from speckled granite. For centuries the Waking Sea had gnawed at the cliffs with salted teeth: the softer shale crumbled, while towering columns of limestone seemed sculpted by an architect’s hand. The bay between the twin headlands provided little respite for sailors: the water was calmer but a vicious reef lay beneath its surface. The serrated maw of the Hag’s Teeth was strewn with souvenirs from its past victims: a broken mast caught between two jutting points, a rusting anchor wrapped with seaweed. Scraps of sun-bleached white revealed themselves as pieces torn from a sail.  _

_ The conjuration of Herring in Flora’s mind was not an exact replica of its physical counterpart. She had not set eyes on her home for four years: as the months passed, the cliffs settled into new silhouettes and the reef sprouted more or less teeth according to her scattered remembrance. The pattern of shale and coarse grey sand underfoot shifted with each imagining. Despite the surface inaccuracy there were certainties that remained constant. The sky, sea and landscape borrowed from a bleak and monotonous palette of various greys; the seagulls shrieked like a demonic chorus as they wheeled about the cliffs. The air had a coarseness that scraped the throat; laced with salt and a cloying bitterness of seaweed. To breathe in the north was an entirely different experience. It was impressive, but not beautiful: no landscape painter would ever immortalise the Herring coast with oils and brush. It was stark, and striking, and not welcoming in the slightest. _

_ This imagined beach had been Flora’s classroom for over a decade: she had refined her mending on its shale-swept slopes, and learnt to shield in the shadow of its towering cliffs. Her teachers had been her spirits: the general and the other; abrasive and encouraging in turn. Now she wandered along the shoreline, bare feet sinking into the coarse bank of sand. A length of rope caught her attention, writhing like an eel in the ebb and flow of the tide. Flora reached down to lift it free, water streaming from its tattered end. She peered at it - unremarkable - then let it slither from her palm back into the foaming shallows. _

** _Are you going to wander aimlessly all night? _ **

_ Flora curled her toes, anchoring herself in the damp sand. The wind spun around her, raising the hairs on her forearms.  _

_ I’m not wandering aimlessly, she thought, sulkily. It was a long day. A hard day. I thought I could be a fish.  _

** _You are used to hard days. And this one is not over. _ **

_ Flora felt a slow dread creep over her like an advancing tide. The sky was darkening with each passing moment: the light draining away as though a plug had been pulled. Clouds were massing on the far horizon, black and ominous monoliths laced with the sour green shadow of the Fade.  _

_ Why? she asked plaintively, feeling the strange electric prickle of an incoming storm on her skin. Why can’t I just have a nice dream.  _

_ Her general did not respond. In the distance, Flora saw the dark silhouette of a ship appear on the horizon. As if acting out a much-rehearsed scene from a play, the waves began to lash at its hull; the wind an assault on its sails. The ship lurched with a groan of protesting wood, veering helpless towards the ragged maw of the Hag’s Teeth. _

_ It was a familiar sight to Flora: the impending wreck of the Ellyn Dynge. The men crawled like ants over the rigging, tiny and desperate: a sail tore clean in half as though it were parchment.  _

_ WHY, she demanded, scowling at the doomed ship. I don’t want to see this again. You show me all the time. I know what happens: the ship sinks.  _

_ In the tail of her eye, Flora saw a disjointed montage of men making their way down the beach; boats shoved out into the seething shallows. She was not focused and so most of the figures were blurred and incomplete. The only one which had some clarity was her father.  _

_ I know what happens, she repeated; only half-watching the rescuers set off towards the ailing ship. I just want to catch some crabs. Hello, pa.  _

_ She waved at the man on the far right. The illusion ignored her: eyes fixed on the floundering vessel. _

_ There also came no response from her spirits: save for a flutter of apology from Compassion.  _

_ When Flora next looked at the ship, it was no longer a ship. The broken masts had elongated, the rope netting weaving together into veined flesh. The bones of the sinking ship became a wing, unfolding like a vast and terrible sail. It produced a shadow of indescribable colour: draining the light from the surrounding air. _

_ No, thought Flora, horrified. Stop it. Stop showing me. I don’t want to see it.  _

_ The whispers slid into the water and swam towards her like fish: dark and poisonous. She stepped backwards and found herself still in the shallows: the gritted bank of the shore some yards behind her.  _

_ Far vaster than the ship, the wing unfolded: she could taste the sweet, rotten tang of it on her tongue.  _

_ I don’t want to see it. _

** _Look at it! _ ** _ came the unyielding response.  _

_ Reluctantly Flora looked at it: the wing emerging from the water, and felt fear seize her by the throat. She squeezed her eyes shut and let the anchor of Alistair’s hand draw her back through the Veil -  _

\- and into the waking world. 

The shadowed walls of the bedchamber disorientated Flora: the stillness and the silence a contrast to the world she had just departed. Her heart was hammering a blacksmith’s rhythm against her ribs, a constellation of cold sweat had broken out across her forehead. She lay flat on her back in a claustrophobic well of darkness, the blanket tangled around her legs: staring without seeing at the ceiling. If she risked a blink, she might glimpse the wing of the Archdemon silhouetted against her eyelids. 

Then a snore broke the silence, a thrum of sound close to her right ear. Flora could see her brother-warden in the tail of her eye: his supine form like a mountain range as he lay on his side beside her. One arm was curved beneath Flora, fingers resting lightly around her shoulder. Her abrupt wakening had not roused him: his face was slack and lost in dreaming, the clear, handsome features at ease. 

Impulsively Flora rolled towards him, pressing her nose into the roughspun linen of his shirt. She filled her lungs with the now-familiar scent: heat, sword oil and man. The frantic palpitation of her pulse eased: she could feel the steady drumbeat of his own heart in a throb against her cheek. Driven by unconscious instinct, Alistair threw his free arm over her. It settled across her hip, a broad palm claiming her thigh. 

The weight of the limb was reassuring; the agitated knots in Flora’s mind gradually eased themselves loose as she settled into the unconscious embrace.

_ He looks so peaceful when he sleeps,  _ she thought idly, tilting her chin to gaze at the underside of his face.  _ No dragons in his dreams tonight.  _

** _It was not just a dragon. It was the Archdemon. _ **

_ I’m not talking to you. You RUINED my night! TWICE. Alistair and I - we - I think we were going to -  _

Her general laughed nastily. Flora ignored the cackle - which sounded like the crushing of dead leaves beneath a boot - and returned her attention to her brother-warden. The bulk of Alistair’s arm was testament to the past decade spent wielding sword and shield. She liked the weight of it above her hip: it felt definite. 

Lifting her fingers, Flora let a lone candle’s worth of light fall on him: careful to avoid spilling any on his face. A mark below the hollow of his throat caught her attention: the legacy of a glancing blow that had predated her entry into his life. Flora touched the blanched skin with a roll of dread in her belly; an inch to the side, and the wound would have severed a blood vessel.

_ How brave,  _ she thought to herself, pulling the collar of his skirt down to cover the scar.  _ To live without magic.  _

Between snores, Alistair murmured something unintelligible under his breath, hauling her closer. Flora shut her eyes tightly and hoped that the clam-shell of his embrace would keep her half-rooted in the waking world. 

The next day dawned foggy and cold: the usual Fereldan fare of drizzling clouds. The sun rose early and presided over a misty span of grey: the wind spun gleefully through the naked trees. Remnants of autumnal colour lay scattered across the ground like a trove of copper coins. Beneath the mists the surface of Lake Calenhad was scored with white lines, agitated by the restless air. At its northernmost point the Circle Tower rose from the central islet of a moon-shaped archipelago. The shuttered windows remained sealed; the door barred and bolted. 

A sliver of anaemic sun stole between the curtains that Alistair had drawn the previous night. The tavern bedchamber looked smaller and shabbier in the cool-toned dawn. Their packs spilled their contents across ill-fitting floorboards sorely in need of a sweep. The muffled clatter of the kitchen echoed through the far wall; the cook had no qualms about rousing the guests. 

Alistair and Flora had left sleep simultaneously: tangled so tightly together, when one stirred an inch, the other felt it. Their eyes met - green-flecked hazel and uniform grey - and the same thought was writ stark. They had shared an embrace with intent the previous evening; they had woken in the morning with limbs interwoven, his palm claiming her thigh. 

What they had  _ not _ done during the intermediate night itself hovered unspoken between them. Neither was willing to give it voice: awed by the potency of their reciprocal desire. 

Now Alistair could not believe that he had once labelled his sister-warden’s face as cold and imperious: the beauty laced with a superiority that made her unapproachable. He followed the angle of Flora’s jaw, tracing a line from her right ear to her left. She shivered when he continued to her earlobe, caressing it with the large and capable ball of his thumb. 

“Think we have time to break our fast before we head off?” he asked in an undertone, wanting to say:  _ I almost made love to you last night.  _

_ Not that I know what that is. Probably not like when we bred the mares in Eamon’s stables.  _

Alistair fought the urge to free her hair from its leather toggle; to spill the deep crimson richness over the bed like a fall of forest fruits. He satisfied himself with brushing a thumb over the dark arch of her brow, though his gaze involuntarily drifted down to the sulky fullness of her mouth.

Flora looked at the dawn slanting through the gap in the curtains: at war with her Herring habit of rising before first light. She was warm and comfortable, and did not want to get up. The weight of Alistair’s arm still rested across her belly and she felt anchored to the narrow mattress. When she looked back to Alistair, there was a strange light and a question in his eyes. 

Despite her reluctance, Flora understood how vital it was that she leave the bed, and his embrace; that the urgent, unfulfilled desire between them remain dormant, for now. There was an army of mages to recruit, a boy in need of exorcism and a village desperate for respite: none of which would happen any sooner if they allowed themselves to be distracted. Thus she hauled herself inelegantly upwards: navigating the rugged terrain of her brother-warden. 

Alistair let her go reluctantly, also recognising that if they lingered too long in each other’s arms it might mean no visit to the Circle that morning, or even that  _ day _ . 

“Breakfast,” she repeated mid-yawn, rubbing her eyes with her fists. “Mm. And then - a walk?”

“A horse,” he corrected, rising from the bed. “We have more than enough coin, thanks to Bann Teagan.”

Flora looked mutinous: she had not fared well with horses on their journey to Ostagar, nor during any time since. 

The innkeeper provided them with a loaf of three-day old bread and a bag of apples; clearly, he wished to be rid of them as soon as possible. Neither Flora and Alistair could understand why - they bore no mark signifying that they were members of the disgraced Wardens. The man did not meet their eye once during negotiations over the horse; he shifted from foot to foot as though fleabitten. 

All became clear when they emerged blinking into the mists; mouths full of stale bread and clutching apples. Flora’s staff had been retrieved from her hiding place - which had not been much of one after all - and propped in an accusatorial manner against the fence. 

“Oh,” said Flora vaguely, recalling that the length of beech did indeed belong to her. “It’s my staff.”

“That explains it.” Alistair swept a searching glance over the stable: the innkeeper’s son was meant to meet them with horse and bridle. “He thinks you’ve fled the Circle. An illegal escapee.” 

“Eh.” 

Flora put a hand to her chest, listening for the crisp response of parchment. Somewhere amongst the treaties lay her Circle discharge, authorised by the archmage and witnessed by Duncan. His signed name and title was the only part of him that remained in the mortal world: brisk and sloping, the word merging at the tail end in an impatient collision of letters. It was the signature of a man with many tasks and myriad responsibilities; one who could not afford to waste time on meticulous Circle bureaucracy. If he had been two decades younger and less tolerant, he would have taken Flora without waiting for her papers. 

The innkeeper’s son ambled yawning towards the stables; casting a sideways glance at Flora as he did so. A short while later, he emerged leading a vast and fidgeting horse by its bridle. Alistair appraised it with an experienced eye: it was tall and muscled enough to bear their combined weight; the dark coat shone like oil; the gait seemed even. Abandoning his pack, he strode forwards, taking the bridle with a confident grip. Alarmed by Alistair’s size the horse had balked: he gripped the reins and murmured reassurance, scratching the white blaze that ran the length of the nose. It was a practised and tested technique: within moments, the flattened ears had returned upright and the horse dropped his head.

“What’s his name?” Alistair asked, resting a palm on the taut muscle of the hindquarters. “He’s a beauty.”

“Batard,” replied the innkeeper’s son, still surreptituously eyeballing Flora. “Did you pay my dad already?” 

“Yes,” replied Alistair, dropping to lift each hoof in turn. “Wait,  _ ‘Batard’?  _ As in,  _ bastard?’” _

There had been a half-Orlesian boy in Alistair’s dormitory at the monastery: he had taught them a host of vulgarities in his native dialect. The innkeeper’s son shrugged: he spoke no tongue other than his own. 

“Ha.” Alistair acknowledged the suitability of the name with a wry smile. “Fitting, I suppose.”

He peered at the horse once more, measuring it up with an experienced eye. Its dimensions were far greater than the average Fereldan stock; it was a warhorse, and which meant that pedigreed blood ran somewhere in its ancestry. Alistair decided not to enquire as to how a provincial tavern on the poorer coast of Lake Calenhad had come by such a valuable steed. 

  
While her brother-warden adjusted the stirrup to accommodate the length of his leg, Flora leaned her elbows on the fence and peered out at the lake. A morning fog hung above the water, gossamer thin and limned with silver. She could not see the opposite shore, though the head of the lake was far narrower than its belly. Kinloch Hold, silhouetted within tbe mist, appeared oddly skeletal: supported by a ribcage of buttresses and columns. Once again Flora reached a palm to her breast and covered Duncan’s signature: assurance that she was free of the Circle’s control. 

They set off before the other tavern guests had woken, their departure noted with guarded relief by the innkeeper and his wife. Alistair’s instinct was right: the horse had destrier heritage, and easily carried both Warden-recruits with their baggage. The road was a single track that clung to the lakeshore: little more than a narrow, well-trodden trail. Ferns lined the bank on both sides, pale green fronds were strewn like rushes before them.

At first, Flora had perched on the saddle behind Alistair. After she spent a quarter-candle crashing around like a loose sack of potatoes, they decided that it would be better for her to sit before him. Alistair had no complaint: he put an arm across her belly to keep her in place and gripped the reins in his free hand. Secretly, he wondered _how_ she could have grown _worse _at riding with experience. 

Flora did not care that she was bad at riding horses: it was not a skill that she had ever wanted to refine. She was content to lean against Alistair’s chest, following the rhythmic sway of his body. He rode like an instinct, hips moving with the rolling gait of the horse. 

The horse ploughed forward into the mist, reassured by the capable hand at its head. They were still many miles from the coast, but they were almost in the part of Ferelden that could be described as the  _ north.  _ The air had a different taste and texture: it clung damply to the back of the throat, and soaked one’s clothes before one realised that it was raining. The presence of the Waking Sea and the high hills of the Marches created a deep valley that Ferelden’s north had sunk into: despite its proximity to warmer climes, the weather remained perpetually soggy. 

After an hour Flora was in her element: she was used to fog obscuring the land and sitting in wet clothes. The lake was still hidden beneath a cloud of mist like confectioner’s sugar: the branches of the fir trees sagged until they brushed the top of Alistair’s head. 

“Maker’s Breath,” he said as more icy water dripped down the back of his neck. “I don’t remember it being this miserable when we got you from the Circle.”

Flora did not begrudge him this opinion: he was a southerner and not used to such dreariness.

“It was earlier then,” she said, “the trees still had leaves. Now it’s winter.” 

“Hm.” 

She reached inside her pocket and rummaged around: producing a series of rustling noises before pulling out an apple. Several pieces of bread lay strewn over the horse’s neck; Flora retrieved them gingerly.

“Do you want an apple?”

“Yes,” said Alistair, who never rejected food. “What else have you got?” 

He craned his neck over her shoulder with the easy familiarity that had sprouted between them since Ostagar. Flora lifted the apple and he took it; eyeing her bulging pockets. 

“Looks like you’ve got half the larder in there.” 

“I saved Morrigan breakfast.” 

Flora looked around, half-expecting the witch to burst out from the trees with a cackle. The firs rustled, but only with a passing breeze. The mist above the lake was lifting like a bridal veil: Kinloch Hold consolidated itself in a defiant thrust of limestone.

“She’s probably already enjoyed a delicious mouse,” remarked Alistair, acerbic as was possible behind a mouthful of apple. “Or another small rodent. Look, you can see the Circle now. Maybe they’ll serve us breakfast there too!”

Flora scowled at the elongated pinnacle as it emerged from the fog like a beacon: though no guiding flame burned atop its crenellated rooftop. She put her palm to her breast once again, feeling the reassuring whisper of the papers. Although she could not read, her Circle discharge was the least yellowed of the documents. The allegiance treaties had been repeatedly enchanted to preserve them over the centuries: indecipherable handwriting meandered over parchment bleached from age. 

Alistair felt his sister-warden shift on the saddle and guessed at her mind. 

“They can’t keep you,” he said; for the third time in twenty four hours. “I promise they can’t, Flo.”

Flora cast him a searching and uncertain look over her shoulder. Alistair let the reins go slack and slid his freed palm up her arm; aware of the flesh beneath the sagging wool. None of Flora’s clothes fit her: everything hung off her body like laundry draped out to dry. 

“I wouldn’t stay this time,” she replied, vaguely. “I wouldn’t let them keep me again.” 

She did not elaborate, averting her gaze from the ever-closer tower. Alistair pondered the obscure reply for a moment -  _ did she mean that she could have escaped, if she’d wished to? -  _ but decided not to question Flora further: her head was turned with mulish deliberateness in the opposite direction. He thought about asking her for a story instead, since she seemed to have a bottomless supply; but then the road veered west and began to slope sharply downwards.

The shore of the lake lay before them: covered with a thin swathe of shingle. Beyond lay the water and a stone bridge that had been allowed to fall into disrepair. Kinloch Hold rested on its rocky isle a half-mile into the water: surrounded by decaying remnants of Tevinter origin. A dock jutted out into the water, with a lone boat at anchor. Nearby, nestled within a copse of bare-branched trees, stood a dilapidated tavern. The building gave off an air of general neglect; the hanging sign above the door too rotten to decipher a name. 

Flora recognised the dock: it had a counterpart at the foot of the Circle. She had taken the ferry across the water on two occasions: although she could remember little of her arrival at Kinloch Hold. She put a palm to her breast yet again, touching the safeguard of Duncan’s signature. 

“Back again,” Alistair said, feeling the sting of their commander’s absence. “I hope I don’t get seasick again. Where’s the ferryman?” 

“Not again!” 

The complaint came from the entrance to the worn-out tavern. A man who seemed vaguely familiar stood in the doorway: glowering and with a bottle in his hand. 

“I’ve been given strict orders not to take  _ anyone  _ to the Circle,” the ferryman continued, made belligerent by the ale. “I’m fed up of people asking. You can pay me an Orlesian ransom but I ain’t going there. Waste of my bloody time.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to continue building on the theme of the parallel between the shipwreck of the Ellyn Dynge - a pivotal event for Flora growing up - and the Archdemon. Her spirits are deliberately creating a narrative where the floundering ship and the Archdemon are confused in Flora’s mind - for their own mysterious purposes. This is my version of the Archdemon visions, lol.
> 
> The horse is inspired by the destrier, a medieval warhorse built like a brick shithouse - now extinct! 
> 
> Anyway, poor Alistair expecting to receive a cooked breakfast at the Circle! He’s in for a RUDE AWAKENING D:


	66. The Ferry

“You can turn that big horse around now. I ain’t taking you  _ nowhere.” _

The ferryman stood with feet planted squarely on the damp grass, bristling with annoyance like an irate hedgehog. It seemed that he had lost coin with the lost custom: no visitors meant no profit. His idle boat nudged against the dock, moored fast with a rope wrapped around a nearby post. Across the serrated, windswept waters rose Kinloch Hold; cloaked by the remnants of the morning mist. It lay a taunting half-mile away; with no passage, it might as well have been in Tevinter. 

Bridling, Alistair fought the urge to make a sarcastic response, which in itself was a proxy for frustration. He did his best to suppress the anger that soured his gut like corked wine: he had heard once in passing that the old king had possessed a heated temper. Alistair had never forgotten this; and in an effort to disprove any similarity between himself and Maric Theirin, he substituted anger for acerbic wit. 

Instead of replying immediately, he swung himself down from the saddle; landing two booted feet in the damp grass. His sister-warden looked apprehensive at being left with the reins, but the horse had dropped its head and started to graze. Alistair, inhaling a steadying breath, reached up a hand to help Flora slither down. He then turned back to the scowling ferryman, and spoke with a carefully measured calm.

“ _ Why _ aren’t you taking passengers to the Circle?” 

The question hit the ferryman squarely between the shoulderblades: he had been on his way back to the tavern. After a brief hesitation, the man angled himself to them once again. 

“The Circle ain’t admitting anyone,” he said, blunt as a northerner. “I’m fed up of people whining in my ear about how they wouldn’t even open the  _ door _ . Not my problem.” 

The tavern was named  _ The Spoiled Princess.  _ Its sign bore the image of a faded crown; though it hung loose from a lone bracket and looked distinctly less then royal. Empty bottles had been wedged into the soil to mark out an improvised pathway to the entrance. Flora did not want the ferryman to return to his own ale: beer and boats did not go well together in her experience. 

“We  _ have _ to get to the Circle,” Alistair said, and there was brittleness in his voice. “We’re…”

He trailed off without finishing; lips pressed so tight that they became bloodless.

_ Traitors,  _ thought Flora,  _ which is what everyone thinks the Grey Wardens are.  _

She understood why Alistair had not finished his sentence, and decided to offer her own assistance. She simultaneously made an impulsive decision to lie: since the truth might attract unwanted attention. Flora knew that there was a garrison situated over the lie of the hill; the guards in the Circle had alluded to it often enough. She assumed that the soldiers within it were loyal to Loghain, or at least were following his orders. 

“I have captured this escaped Templar,” she said, stilted and solemn; flapping her fingers towards Alistair. “I need to return him to the Circle.”

The ferryman let out a bark of rude and openly incredulous laughter: his gaze sliding from Flora to Alistair. 

_ “You,”  _ he said, still chortling. “Captured  _ him.  _ The lad’s a mountain.” 

Alistair hunched his shoulders in an attempt to look meek and diminutive. This merely made him appear as though he were preparing to break down a door. 

“Mm. I did.”

“Where did you find this escaped Templar, then?” the ferryman enquired, narrowing his eyes in mocking interrogation.

“Running through the woods,” Flora said vaguely, already bored of her lie. She was aware of the hours sliding by like silverfish slipping through a torn net. There was a man sat on the throne who ought not to be; an Archdemon lurking in the south; a possessed child and an assailed town that needed attention: yet, all she cared about was Herring, ignorant of the danger that crept northwards like a slow gangrene of the flesh. 

The ferryman laughed, eyes sliding back towards the bottle and his tavern. Flora heard her brother-warden release a slow rumble of frustration in his throat: and knew that he was thinking of an oath sworn to a man betrayed. The low, slow and measured voice of their commander rolled from one ear to the other like a leaden ball:  _ I chose you.  _

Flora realised that it would take a more eloquent speaker than either herself or Alistair to persuade the ferryman. Not bothering to waste any more time, she abandoned her lie and turned her back on the ferryman before his eyes could return to his ale. She could feel his gaze between her shoulder blades as she strode towards the lake, accompanied by a prickle of alarm from Alistair.

“We’re going to the Circle,” she said flatly, talking to the shoreline. “It ain’t a choice.”

“What,” said the ferryman, bottle in hand not understanding. 

“Oh, shit,” said Alistair, who did. “Flora, no- ”

But Flora was warming to the idea with every step she took towards the expanse of flat, iron-grey water. She was determined to purge the lake’s memory of her undignified plunge into it several days prior.

“Flora,” said Alistair more loudly, picking up each discarded boot as he followed in her wake. “Flora, what are you -  _ surely,  _ you can’t be thinking of- ”

Flora wondered at the incredulity in his tone, as though she was proposing a jaunt into the Deep Roads rather than a simple half-mile swim. She had eyed the distance between the rocky foundation of the Circle and the shoreline many times through Kinloch’s barred windows; had swum the waters a hundred times in her mind. When she was not being assaulted by the undead, she - like any child raised beside the sea - was a proficient swimmer. 

Alistair was despairing as he retrieved her abandoned breeches. 

“Flora,” he said entreatingly, watching the slender legs of his sister-warden advance down the gravel, the hem of her linen shirt flapping round her thighs. “You can’t swim out there. It’s  _ miles.” _

Flora shot him an astonished look over her shoulder; winding her hair into a knot atop her head. 

“Ain’t miles.” 

She put a hand inside her shirt and retrieved the treaties, thrusting them towards him. 

“It’ll be freezing,” he pleaded, watching her descend the final few feet over the shingle. 

“Not colder than the Waking Sea,” she retorted, then almost had a heart attack as her toes met frigid water. It was far colder than the Waking Sea: a murky brownish grey and entirely unforgiving.

Alistair, his arms full of her discarded clothing, watched his sister-warden as she inhaled sharply, fingers curling into her palms.

“Flo- ”

But Flora had set her mind to it; she gritted her teeth and splashed her way forwards. The water bit at her ankles and calves with cold fangs. She could hear the whisper of Alistair’s boots sinking into the gravel, and hastened on in case he made some attempt to grab her. 

“Come back,” he called in her wake, “it’s  _ winter,  _ Flora. That lake is as cold as the Anderfels.”

“It’s refreshing,” she lied, unconvincingly. “And I needed a bath.”

The water had rapidly overtaken her knees. The hem of her shirt floated up like a jellyfish; drifting white and diaphanous around her waist.

“You’ve had your monthly bath in this sodding lake already.” Alistair too had not forgotten her inadvertent plunge. One of her boots tumbled free from his arms and landed on the uneven stone. 

_ I’ll get used to the cold,  _ Flora chanted inwardly in an attempt to convince herself.  _ I’ll get used to it. _

_ Wait, will my legs fall off if they get too cold?  _

** _No. _ **

Reassured she set her jaw and waded forwards, the Circle lying in a straight line before her. The cold had now reached her hips and the bottom of the lake belched silt between her toes. A light drizzle had begun to fall, speckling the surface of the water. 

_ “Fine!  _ Fine. Andraste’s sacred ass.” 

Flora turned around, the shirt floating around her hips. The ferryman had set his bottle down before hurrying ill-temperedly towards his anchored boat. Alistair exhaled in relief, retrieving the fallen boot before following the man to the dock. 

“I d-don’t mind swimming,” Flora lied, intensely relieved. “My great-grandmother was a trout.”

“Not happening, my dear.” 

She watched the boat launch; the ferryman bluntly rejecting any assistance from Alistair with the oars. Her toes were now numb, but her calves retained enough sensation to feel something flit through the water past them. Flora considered making a grab for it, but then reconsidered; it would not do to arrive at the Circle dishevelled and thoroughly sodden. She knew that the senior mages were very keen on maintaining a neat and orderly appearance; it had taken her a long time to get over the shock of how  _ often _ they bathed. Instead, she put her fingers to her mouth to sample the lake water. It tasted of mud, and left a gritty residue on her tongue. She felt a prickle as magic blossomed in the back of her throat; reflexively purifying the impure waters.

_ Ugh, it’s dirty. _

** _Six rivers feed the northern part of the lake._ **

_ Hmph. The sea ain’t dirty. _

** _The sea is saltwater._ **

Flora felt that her spirits understood much more about the world, and how the various parts of it fit together, than they chose to reveal.

The ferryman dug his oar into the silt to halt the boat beside her; his face still raw and incredulous. Alistair almost stood up to help Flora in, then hastily sat down again as the imbalance of weight tilted the curved hull. 

Instead, he stretched out his arm to Flora, who gripped his palm with one hand and the side of the boat with the other. She hauled herself over the edge with the grace of a potato sack entering a cart; sprawling in the hull.

“Maker’s Breath, Flora,” Alistair commented, looking about for something to use as a blanket. There was nothing and so he took her feet between his hands as she perched on the bench beside him. “What in the fel was that?” 

“Swimming,” replied an unrepentant Flora, eyeing her newly clean toenails with fascination. “I’ll teach you. If you teach me  _ the letters.”  _

“I’ll teach you  _ the letters  _ anyway, sweetheart,” Alistair replied, thinking privately that he would happily live his entire life without learning how to swim. “You must be freezing.”

She gave a noncommittal shrug, her gaze meandering along the shoreline. He eyed her, rubbing her foot between the broad span of his palms. The boat pulled through the grey waters; aided by the nudge of a brisk westerly wind that spun through hair and clothing. 

“So,” the ferryman commented after a few minutes, oars cutting the lake surface in practised rotation. “Got fed up of life on the outside, did you?”

This was directed at Flora, who looked momentarily confused. The ferryman snorted, casting her an appraising glance.

“A man don’t easily forget a face like yours. Weren’t it two months ago you left? Back at the start of Kingsway. I took you over the water.” He adjusted his grip on the oar. “You were with that long-haired man. The foreigner.” 

Flora felt Alistair’s bristling alarm against her skin: if the ferryman remembered her, he might also remember that the  _ long haired foreigner  _ was none other than Duncan, Warden-Commander of Ferelden, and that Flora herself had been taken on the pretext of joining the Order. 

_ And the Wardens have been named traitor,  _ thought Flora, heart sinking to her belly as though anchored there.  _ And there’s a garrison over the hill.  _

“Listen,” said Alistair and then trailed off: they had nothing to offer for the man’s silence. The bann’s coin had been spent on ship, board and steed. 

The ferryman spat over the side of the boat, eloquent and northern. The glide of the oars did not pause: moving them in steady lengths towards Kinloch Hold. 

“I’m not Mac Tir’s man,” he said, bluntly. “I’ve no loyalty to him. He’s forgotten his roots. I hear he talks like a southerner.” 

Alistair could have leapt up and cheered with relief. He managed to restrain himself, aware that such a reckless imbalance might tip them all into the grey waters. Instead he reached up to steady his sister-warden, who was manoeuvring herself, with some difficulty, back into her breeches. 

“Mm,” Flora agreed, fastening the button at her belly. “But you can hear the north sometimes.”

She summoned a memory of the general’s scowling face, sallow and strong-boned. His eyes were as dark as Duncan’s, but Mac Tir’s stare scraped the skin like a cheese-grater. When he had spoken to Cailan, there was a stiffness to his voice: a deliberate, articulated arrogance draped over the words like a cloak. When he had escorted her back to the tent, accompanied only by shadow and the soft tread of a Mabari, he had slipped inadvertently into the coarse, flat cadence of his youth. Oswin, the rural province of Loghain’s birth, lay only five leagues south of Herring. She knew the bold intonation in an instant, the throaty  _ O  _ and the slanting  _ E,  _ the roughness of each emerging word, as though it had been sanded by the throat. She knew him for a humble northerner like herself, and he had known that she knew it. 

A rumble of discontent from Alistair returned her to the present. Her brother-warden was scowling, as was reflexive whenever Mac Tir’s name was mentioned. 

“The man talks like a deserter,” he said, flatly. “A lying, king-murdering turn-coat. A pretender to the throne.”

He glanced down at Flora, who was gazing up at him with a faint crease of curiosity furrowed across her brow. Instead of showing a microscopic twin of his own grimacing face, the pupil of her eye was a well: dark and deep. Alistair felt as though he might drown in it if he stared long enough. 

“What does a deserter talk like?” she asked, genuinely intrigued.

“Like a snake,” he replied after a moment, still annoyed but less so. 

There were no snakes on the northern coast.

“I don’t know what that is.” 

“Like an eel. But on the land.” 

Flora was fascinated: she wondered if  _ snake _ could be jellied and eaten cold, or if their blood was poisonous before cooking. Alistair gazed at her face as though he could read the thoughts written on the inside of her skull; hoping that his gaze was not emerging as disconcertingly intense. He made himself look away after several moments, reminding himself of their goals both immediate and otherwise. 

_ Seek help from the mages for Eamon’s boy.  _

_ Remind them of their duty to the Wardens. _

_ They might still be serving breakfast.  _

The ferryman’s blunt complaint interrupts his musing: “Don’t know why you’re bothering. They ain’t going to open the door for you.” 

Flora brought a fingernail to her mouth and bit at it, watching the water slide past the hull of the boat. She did not know enough about the Circle’s admission policy to make comment; she had only ever visited its ground floor twice, on her arrival and departure. Alistair, who had spent a summer at the Jainen Circle as part of his Templar training, knew only a little more. 

“I can’t think of any reason why they’d lock the doors,” he wondered out loud, not overly concerned. “I suppose I assumed that they weren’t allowed to. Hey, Flo - I don’t feel seasick!”

Flora smiled at him. Alistair nearly returned a reflexive grin, then paused: letting a flippant comment about a budding naval career slither back down his throat. Instead, he reached forward and swept a finger near her ear, brushing back a strand of rain-damp hair. The line of dark red clung to her skin like a knife wound, or the flesh-carving made by the more fanatical of the Ash Warriors. Flora’s smile faded like smoke; her eyes remained fixed and unblinking on him. Alistair noticed that her pupils occupied more space within the cinereous grey irises. 

“No gills,” he observed lightly. “I thought you were descended from a tadpole.” 

“A trout,” she corrected, pale brow creasing like folded vellum. 

“A trout, my dear?”

“Mm. Tadpoles are  _ freshwater.”  _

Flora said  _ freshwater  _ in the same tone as she would have said  _ rotting Darkspawn entrails.  _ It was the strangest amorous exchange that Alistair had ever partaken in: not that his experience was extensive. He was not even entirely sure whether she was flirting or making a serious comment; like the Sphinx of Rivain, her face yielded nothing. 

The ferryman rolled his eyes, pulling them closer to the rocky shore with each draw of his arms. The drizzle had abated and it was turning into the sort of mild and dreary morning that was typical of a Fereldan winter. The sky was the same nondescript grey as the lake, and the air blended with the water at the horizon. 

The decaying edifice of Kinloch Hold crowned a rocky archipelago: the craggy rocks formed a natural deterrent to escape. A century prior, watchtowers had been constructed on each flanking islet: a half-circle of observing eyes fixed permanently on the bleak and lonely tower at its centre. As the Templars honed their craft, the need for the look-out posts diminished. Now, all that remained were their remnants: crumbling walls stood waist high amidst tangles of ambitious foliage. 

Flora did not turn to look at the expanding foundation of Kinloch Hold: squat and square atop its rocky isle. She put a hand to her shirt to feel the rustle of her Circle discharge, only to feel a clench of panic in her belly when only her flesh sounded back. Alistair, who had been watching her, returned the treaties that she had handed him for safekeeping; kind eyes seeking to reassure her. 

_ They can’t lock you up again. I promise they can’t.  _

His hand found hers and gave a swift, hard squeeze. It hurt a little, but Flora liked the reassurance of it: it was a grip that could haul in a straining net, or a boat up a shingled slope. Oddly enough, at the same moment she felt a current of grief ripple through her mind; a sigh from voiceless, faceless Compassion. 

_ What’s wrong?  _ Flora thought, disconcerted.  _ What’s the matter?  _

As expected, there was no response. 

Before she could dwell on it any further, Flora was jolted by the gentle bump of wood against stone. The ferryman had guided the boat alongside the rough-hewn step of granite that served as a dock; slinging rope around a squat iron mooring. The Circle reared above them, two hundred feet of bleak grey rock and barred windows. From such close quarters it dominated the sky, framed by a desolate wreath of cloud. The wind spun jeering around its circumference, as though mocking those trapped within. 

“I’ll wait a quarter candle,” the ferryman said, watching the young Warden-recruits disembark. “Just enough time for you to realise that they  _ ain’t opening the door.” _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol little do they suspect the absolute shitshow that’s occurring beyond the closed doors of the Circle! I don’t think Alistair will be getting the cooked breakfast he’s hoping for.
> 
> I love this scene of Flora just being like; well I’m going to SWIM there, then! Of course since she’s grown up on the coast, she’s a good swimmer - but Alistair is absolutely horrified. I also like the parallels between Flora and Loghain; which she herself acknowledges even though she also hates him for abandoning FUNCAN (typo but leaving it in, hazard of writing/editing/posting everything on my phone!) 
> 
> In other news, holy shit, my toddler is cutting her first molar!*** It’s absolute HELL! And I know it’s painful for her bless her, but seriously... for the past four nights, I have had three hours of sleep each night cumulatively! Last night I was up at 9, 11:30, then 1:30-4:30, then 5!! Thank fuck I only work 2.5 days a week, but I do have to look after a 14 month old on each “day off”. Seriously though, you can legit get by on 3 hours of sleep, I went to work Monday and taught five hours worth of lectures! The human body is amazing hahaha.
> 
> *** or else she’s possessed and I need to call an exorcist.


	67. *Artwork!*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commissioned this gorgeous piece of Flora from an artist named Katorius on Deviant art. It’s Flora underwater, ie in her happy place (in that she can breathe, and not drown - so probably in some Fade dream!) all that’s missing is the gills, hohoho.

Flora - by Katorius


	68. Something Wrong In The Circle?

A stair was hewn into the rock, curving up and around the foundations of Kinloch Hold. It was cut deliberately crude, as though to emphasise its infrequency of use; most of those who resided within would make only a single journey. The drizzle had promoted itself to established rain; it stung exposed flesh as only northern precipitation could. The limestone was slick and misshapen from centuries of footfall; tattered skeins of rope hung from iron rings driven into the wall. This formed a rudimentary handrail, though Alistair doubted that it would save a fall.

The last time that he had ascended these steps was with Duncan. The older man had climbed them with the swiftness and agility of one decades younger. If his body truly had been on the verge of submission to the taint, he had hidden it well. Alistair then recalled the apothecary’s array of tinctures that Duncan carried with him, and realised that his commander had most likely preserved his flesh and mind through artificial means. 

_ Until he met Flora.  _

Alistair glanced over his shoulder at his sister-warden, who was several steps below. Flora looked faintly nauseous: the last time she had ascended the curving stair was in the company of the Templars. He noticed that she had the bundle of parchment clutched in a fist like a weapon. 

“Flora,” he said, about to repeat his assurance from earlier. 

Then, Alistair cut himself off and descended to her level, reaching to gently extract the sheaf of treaties. The allegiance accords had been enchanted for preservation: the vellum and ink looked freshly made. He leafed through - a dwarven sigil marked one, a stamp crafted from wood imprinted another - until he found Flora’s Circle discharge. 

“Here.” He bound the accords back up, then handed Flora her release papers. “This is what you want. Just show them this if anyone asks any questions.” 

“Thank you.” 

Rudimentary manners had been the one skill that Flora had learnt in the Circle. 

“More than welcome, Flo,” he replied lightly, his gaze lingering on hers. “After all, it wouldn’t be any good to have my sister-warden locked up, would it? I need her.” 

The corner of her mouth quirked and then her eyes moved past him: to the stairs that still lay between them and the door. Alistair marvelled at the serenity impassivity of her expression: he knew that she was still nervous and yet no brittle twist of fear betrayed the blank, beautiful canvas of her face. It was as inscrutable as an Orlesian mask; and he wondered idly what it would take to penetrate it. 

Flora distracted herself by counting the granite stairs beneath her feet as she ascended them. She counted to twelve, then began again: timing each step to the apprehensive thud of her heart. 

_ I wish that some other Warden had survived, and that they could have done this bit.  _

_ I don’t feel like a real Warden. There wasn’t any time to learn about them. _

** _Your commander should have educated you, instead of waxing lyrical about Rivain and his youth._ **

_ I liked hearing about Rivain. And his youth. _

** _Entirely irrelevant. And increasingly inappropriate. _ **

A dark stripe of energy cut the air before Flora, accompanied by the static hiss and acrid scent of magic. Black feathers drifted like Antivan carnival candies thrown into a crowd. As the light fell back into order, Morrigan stood grinning three steps above them.

“Ha! For a pair of  _ Grey Wardens,  _ you both jump easily.”

Flora let go of the tattered rope that had narrowly prevented another startled plunge into the lake. Just below her, Alistair swore under his breath: he had nearly fallen down the steps. 

“Why can’t you just - be like a normal person?” he complained, shooting the witch a dark look. “Walk up and say hello? Good morning?” 

Morrigan curved a supercilious smile.

“You ought to thank me.”

_ “Thank  _ you! For what, exactly?”

“For improving your reflexes. You stayed upright, did you not? You didn’t go tumbling down the stairs like an utter fool? Defying my expectations.”

“I dislike you,” replied Alistair, “a  _ great deal  _ for someone I’ve only known for a month. Usually dislike grows on me.”

“Like a mould,” the witch said, evilly. “Or a fungus.” 

Flora did not want to listen to Morrigan and Alistair arguing: she wanted to focus solely on arguing with her general about her dead commander. A seagull wheeled in the air overhead and let out a raucous cry; a white flick of ink against the grey. She remembered suddenly how the bird of prey had dived beyond the parapet at Ostagar, letting out a shriek far more predatory than any gull. Flora had startled in alarm; the cloak had slithered from her shoulders. 

_ It’s a falcon,  _ Duncan had explained, lifting the cloak and replacing it with care.  _ Young sister. _

The deep reverberation of his voice cut through her mind like a cleaver, splitting the argument dead in half. Flora lifted her chin and continued up the steps with renewed vigour: determined not to let the spectral echo of her commander down. 

Meanwhile, five yards and ten steps further back, the snide exchange between Morrigan and Alistair had taken on a different tilt. She had peered at him slyly from the tail of her eye, the dark red mouth twisting upwards. 

“What,” Alistair retorted in response to the barbed glance, taking two steps at once in his efforts to catch up with Flora.  _ “What?” _

“So, have you two relieved yourself of the inconvenient burden of virginity yet?” 

Whatever Alistair had expected from Morrigan’s throat, it was not this. 

“What the- no. Not that it’s any of  _ your  _ business.  _ No.”  _

He hoped fervently that he was not going red. To his relief, Flora was some distance away: charging up the steps with inexplicable determination. 

Morrigan was gazing at him with pitying bemusement, one eyebrow lodged in her hairline.

“But you had means, motive, opportunity _ -!  _ What did you  _ do _ all night?”

“Sleep,” he retorted, wondering if he could persuade the Templars within the Circle to incarcerate Morrigan instead - not for  _ ever,  _ just perhaps for a week - or a  _ month.  _

Her eyes rolled, the clever lip curled. 

“You two need to  _ get it over with. _ Then you’ll be able to concentrate far better on our task, hm?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alistair said tautly. “We’re at the Circle, about to recruit the mages. That’s our task. Our sworn duty.” 

“And yet you look at her like a starving man would a feast.” 

“I’m  _ not _ having this conversation.” 

She laughed. 

Grinding his teeth, Alistair ascended two steps at a time - which was easier than climbing them singly given the length of his leg - until he had caught up with Flora. She was hesitating on the top step: ahead lay a small plateau of granite, and then rose the vast and joyless edifice of Kinloch Hold. There were no windows at the lower heights and so the stone stretched upwards in a wall of unadorned blocks. A pair of double doors were set within an arch at the base. The guard post nearby was empty: the Tower stood as motionless as a chess piece. 

Flora clenched her Circle discharge in her fist, rolled up in a bundle. She realised then that she had been so distracted by the obstinate ferryman that she had forgotten her staff. It lay tucked beneath her pack, strapped to the hindquarters of their stabled horse. 

_ Ooh,  _ she thought in dismay.  _ They’ll think that I’ve lost it.  _

Still, there was nothing that she could do about it. Flora reassured herself with the knowledge that her staff would not be required; that all they needed to do within the Circle was enlist the assistance of the mages. A blot of ink on a page; the scratch of a quill; the muffled collision of a stamp; and their business would be done.

Alistair came to a halt beside her, while Morrigan hung back; watchful and wary. 

“Ready?” he asked, meaning:  _ are you alright? _

Flora was silent: she was not happy about their return to the Circle, but she trusted in Alistair’s assurances and the slanted scrawl of her commander’s signature. 

“Mm,” she said after a hesitation, then gave a more certain nod. “Yes. Let’s - let’s… just go.” 

This was easier said than done: the door was shut fast and bore no less than three keyholes. Within the vast arch of wood was set a smaller door: used for daily passage. Alistair rapped on it with his fist and there came no response, not even after he had repeated the knock with increasing fervour. Eventually, he stepped back with perplexion writ across his handsome face: the door vast and implacable before him. He was a man not used to being refused admittance. 

“Is nobody home?”

A vein of frustration ran through the question: the morning was turning out as a series of obstacles. 

Flora was unhelpful. She had no idea what the Circle protocols were for admitting visitors. In her four years spent within the curving walls, she had never had a guest. She reached out to wrap her fingers around the grizzled ring of iron, dropping it against the door three times. She heard a faint echo of her knock from within, but little else. The insides of her nostrils prickled and she thought that she could smell the acrid afterburn of magic: though she was unsure why such a scent would linger near the entrance.

“Maker’s Breath,” complained Alistair, taking several steps back and eyeing the looming doors. “Looks like everyone’s having a lie in.” 

“Lying in what?” 

Flora had never heard the phrase, nor had one. 

“Reckon I should kick it down?” He had already judged the strength of the door, and predicted that his brawny bulk would come out the winner. 

“Such a primitive mindset: resorting to violence,” called Morrigan, who was still standing at a cautious distance. Then, with no shame at her hypocrisy: “I shall  _ burn it.” _

Flora stared at the grain of the wood until the whorls and meandering contours melted into a blur. Alistair admired the spaces between the bones of her face: the hollows and defined valleys that could have been shaped with a chisel. He could imagine her nose on a Tevinter empress: one of the figures from the history books he had avoided as a youth. It was an imperious nose, fine-boned and very straight. There was no childish tilt to it, nor any softness. It was the sort of nose that presided over a mouth that issued commands. Alistair was not sure whether Flora had ever issued a command in her life. He wondered where she had inherited it. 

The longer he looked at her, the more he felt as though he were sinking to the bottom of a deep well: the world shrinking to a single point of golden light. The descent was inevitable, irreversible and strangely calming: it urged him to surrender even as it stole the air from his lungs. 

“We’ll find a way inside,” Alistair said, still distracted. 

Flora stared at him: her stare blunt as the headsman’s ax. 

“Or we make one.” 

The world contracted around him once again. 

Then, without warning the door-within-a-door opened: first, a fraction and then an expanding wedge of firelight. Both Warden-recruits turned towards it while Morrigan slid back, hackles rising. A Templar stood in the entrance: fully armoured and faceless. The notched blade of a Chantry soldier was carved into the silvered expense of his breastplate. He said nothing but his eyes caught the sunlight behind the helm, slitted with suspicion. A sword hung at his side: the metal oddly stained. 

Flora’s determination to stay calm slipped from her mind in an instant: a minnow escaping a salmon net. The sight of the carven blade and its tangible counterpart brought back a memory that was still far too fresh. In a panic she thrust her fist towards the Templar: brandishing the rolled parchment of her Circle release.

“I’ve been dis- ”

_ “Another mage!” _

The Templar gave a warning shout: the cry reverberating within the helm. Instead of raising the sword, he made a gesture with his free hand: evoking an ability that had been honed by the Chantry’s militia over generations to counter the natural power of mages. It was not magic, but its antithesis: a calculated deadening of the air to suppress any Fade-energies. 

The open-mouthed Flora dropped like a stone, her discharge fluttering unread to the ground.

It had all happened so quickly that Alistair needed a moment to comprehend what had happened. His sister-warden was sprawled on her back; the young Templar’s gauntleted fingers were closing around the hilt of his blade. His eyes, barely visible through the slitted steel, were luminous with fear.

Then the Templar found himself shoved into the door and sworn at by a furious Alistair, who had used no weapon save for muscle. 

“Maker damn you -  _ what  _ did you do that for, you fucking idiot?”

Alistair then went to crouch beside Flora, who looked as though she had been hit over the head with something large. Her lips had a bluish tinge: the result of all the air in her lungs being forcibly expelled by the Templar’s  _ silence. _

“Flora,” he said, stroking his thumb around the corner of her blinking, startled eye. “Just breathe, sweetheart - you’ll be fine, you were  _ silenced.  _ By this  _ fucking idiot son of a Mabari whoreson- ” _

“Articulate,” contributed Morrigan, who had retreated to a safe distance: ready to transform herself in a heartbeat.

Flora could now empathise with the thousands of fish that she had plucked gasping from the water. The Templar’s silence had felt like a fist closing around her head and upper body. She gulped in air to refill her empty lungs: as she did so, a lecture from within her skull slowly increased in volume.

** _-lish girl! Sh-dve…. shielded - …. not good enough. —- what if —— lowly human, then no chance against -_ **

_ Whaaaa…. _

Her general’s voice clarified: taut and unamused.

** _You should be capable of defending against that. YOU SHOULD HAVE BRUSHED IT OFF LIKE A GNAT. _ **

Flora knew about  _ silences _ \- they were part of the Templar’s standard defence - but had never before seen one used; let alone had one used against  _ her.  _

_ You can’t shield against a silence,  _ she thought, gazing at Alistair’s handsome and concern-creased face as it hovered above her.  _ It stops magic. _

** _Is that what they’ve told you? _ **

Flora sat up and rubbed her watering eyes with the hem of her shirt. Her lungs had been replenished, but her rapid severance from the Fade had been disconcerting. Alistair was still crouched before her, his gloved hands gripping her shoulders. 

“Alright, my dear?” he asked softly, eyes searching her face. “Must have been a shock.” 

“Mm.” She let the hem of her shirt drop, brow creasing. “What did I do?” 

“Nothing. That Templar is a fucking idiot.” 

Flora angled her gaze beneath Alistair’s arm: peering at the metal-clad figure still framed by the doorway. She could feel the frantic pulse of the Templar’s heart like an insect buzz against her skin: a sour sweat of fear emerging through the gaps in his armour. Even at a distance she could sense that the rhythm of his body was disrupted. 

“Then why did he silence me?” 

Alistair shrugged, while simultaneously shooting a scowl over his shoulder.

_ Why did he silence me?  _ Flora asked her spirits, not expecting an answer. 

When there indeed came none, she asked the question that had been hovering on the tip of her tongue since their unanswered knock.

_ Is there… something wrong in there? _

Compassion gave a sigh like the whisper of wind through long grasses. 

Flora inhaled an unsteady gulp of air. Her stomach felt as though it had been lined with lead: heavy and oppressive. She did not want to consider the possibility that there might be some crisis within Kinloch Hold. To her, it was impossible: the Circle was a place of order, neatness and routine; it had rules, regulations and unwritten expectations. The Templars ran it like an oiled Orlesian clock with a thousand interlocking parts. Everything from the hour of rising to the meal served at dinner had been set according to tradition. The senior residents of the Circle were erudite, articulate and scholarly. They valued brushed hair and clean nails. Even the apprentices soon found themselves speaking in a hush, as though they were living within a vast and multi-levelled library. She could not see how anything seriously wrong could occur in such an orderly place. 

** _What about the maleficar? _ ** her general reminded her. 

_ Oh. Jowan. But that was a one-off, surely? _

Flora took another deep and steadying breath. She felt like her father must have done whenever he spotted a mass of cloud building on the horizon. Alistair’s anxious face hovered in the tail of her eye. 

_ Storm is coming. _

_ Well, a storm was always coming. Don’t southerners call our coast, the Storm Coast?  _

Flora thought on what her father would do amidst the brewing storm. 

_ Weight the boat. Double knot the anchor. Tack the sail close to the mast. And then set out from the land as quickly as possible.  _

_ That’s the mistake that the inexperienced make in a storm: they stick too close to the shore. That’s where death and the Teeth lie. To survive the storm, you have to sail through it: to the deep waters beyond.  _

Flora drew in a slow and measured lungful of air, as though she were winding in a net. Then she clambered to her feet, accepting Alistair’s hastily offered hand; her face already turning towards the doorway. Their purpose was set out in her mind like a fishing line strung between rods in the sand. 

_ Find the First Enchanter.  _

_ Get his seal on the ally treaty. _

_ Bring a powerful mage back to Redcliffe.  _

The Templar framed in the doorway flinched as Flora approached: his helm rotated from side to side. His fingers stretched towards the hilt of his blade. 

“I’m a mender,” Flora said: blunt and without hesitating. “Only thing I can do to you is fix your toothache.”

The Chantry soldier’s hand went to his iron-clad cheek, startled. 

“How did you - ”

“What’s wrong in there?” she asked, peering beneath his extended arm. “Is it bad?”

Behind the helm, the man’s eyes slitted with suspicion. 

“How do you know?”

Flora heard Alistair curse under his breath as he came up behind her; in comparison to his solid bulk, the Templar suddenly looked a child, despite the armour. The leaden feeling in her belly congealed into a more sinister dread: she could smell blood in the air. The Templar hesitated, his eyes flickering so that he looked human - and young. He then deferred responsibility, calling over his shoulder.

“Knight-Captain- ser!”

There was a pause, and then a voice threaded with exhaustion lashed out a response.

“Carroll, you damned fool - I told you,  _ the door stays shut!” _

The young Templar grimaced behind the helm, and then the door was flung wide behind him. A man stood there: hollow-cheeked and ghastly in appearance. The creases on his face appeared to have been dug out with knives; he looked to be in desperate need of sleep. He bore the fletched sword of the Templar on his breastplate, but it boasted extra augmentation that indicated superior rank. 

Flora recognised him in an instant - the commander of Kinloch Hold’s garrison. She did not suppose that he knew who she was in turn: with her lack of offensive ability, she had held the same threat as a Tranquil. The Templars focused their eyes and attention on those with power, who could summon great gouts of flame with a click of neatly groomed fingers, or coat a man within a cage of shadow. Most of their encounters had taken place in corridors, and consisted of him striding past her while she rinsed out her mop and eyed his dusty footprints. 

As it happened, Knight-Commander Greagoir  _ did  _ recognise Flora: she of the exquisite face and vacuous mind. He knew that she was vague, illiterate and capable of only mending minor cuts and bruises - a mage of such insignificant ability that she had warranted none of his attention during her few years of residence in his Circle. He had never learnt her name; only that he ought to avoid posting the more susceptible junior Templars to her floor. His younger recruits had not yet learnt that external beauty did not compensate for inherent blasphemy. The Knight-Commander’s scheduling had become far easier once the girl had been conscripted into the Wardens. 

“What are you doing back here?” he asked with a harried impatience. “I haven’t got time for this. Take the ferry to the mainland.” 

Before Flora or Alistair could answer, the Knight-Commander had turned back to address someone unseen. Although he lowered his voice, fragments of urgent conversation slid free.

_ “ — certain. Can’t risk it —— no one could’ve survived —— Uldred —— authorisation for the Annulment.”  _

Alistair had not finished his studies at the monastery, but knew enough of Templar linguistics to guess at Greagoir’s meaning. His first reaction was disbelief -  _ surely not -  _ and then dismay. 

_ We need these mages,  _ he thought, recalling a promise made to a man now two months dead.  _ There’s more power in this single tower than in twenty garrisons.  _

“We aren’t leaving,” he replied, startled by the flat authority that rang through the statement like the peal of sword against shield. Alistair was more used to dry sarcasm or self-depreciation infusing his words: this sonorous note of authority took him entirely by surprise. He had never expected to be capable of such tonality, but it had emerged thoughtless from his throat, far easier than any calculated joke. 

Turning back, Greagoir looked at the young man who bore Maric’s face atop ill-fitting Templar armour; a flicker of recognition igniting. The design on the breastplate was outdated - it was at least four decades old - and yet the lad appeared no more than two dozen years, if that. A moment later and the memory surfaced: this was the junior officer who had accompanied Duncan Rivaini. 

“I don’t know what you want,” the Templar commander retorted, his voice brittle as old iron. “But you won’t find it here.” 

Meanwhile Flora had become distracted. Pain was her lodestone; the raw and bloody sigh; the voiceless whimper; the choking cough all drew her in like a magnet. Much as any mother would turn to the cry of a newborn not their own, her head swung towards a muffled groan. Sounds of soft misery slid between the Knight-Commander’s boots. 

The old Templar took up much of the door-within-a-door, but Flora managed to angle her stare past him. She could see a portion of the stone bastion beyond: a pair of feet and ankles stuck out from behind a pillar. Someone was lying prone on the naked tile. Flora could smell the raw metallic odour of blood far stronger now; it curdled on her tongue like sour milk. 

She looked at the Knight-Commander; to whom she had never before dared to speak.

“What happened?” 

The Templar hesitated: but too late, her pale and expectant stare had sunk a barb into him. A response emerged from his throat before he could arrest it. 

“The Circle has fallen.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha oh no, poor Flora - she gets so freaked out on seeing the Templar that she waves her Circle discharge at him, he assumes that she’s casting a spell and hits her with a silence! Of course it’s understandable that he’s on edge considering how gone to shit things are in the Circle at the moment. Alistair won’t be getting the late breakfast he’d hoped for!! 
> 
> So one fantasy aspect (because there’s not any biological basis for it hahaha) is the aura of command that both Flora and Alistair have. I headcanon that those descended from Ferelden’s original clans - like the Theirins, the Mac Eanraigs (flora’s maternal line) and the Couslands have this inherited authority that manifests itself without prompting - even though Alistair is actively trying to suppress his heritage, and Flora has no idea. 
> 
> Anyway this was a fun chapter to write, even though I’m slightly ashamed that my whole 4K word chapter consisted of them walking up some stairs and towards a tower! Lol well you know I’m not concise XD
> 
> I did get a new commission of Flora in tarot style art, it’s so gorgeous and underwater themed (her happy place!) it’s on the Ao3 edition of this story, in a chapter called *artwork*


	69. Broken Circle I

The Templar’s words rung hollow within the doorway, and - despite the Chantry’s branding on his chest - there seemed to be an element of grief within them. He seemed a man on the verge of exhaustion, propped up by a lifetime of military training. The hair visible at the neck of his helm was shot through with the rapid blanching of trauma. He stood framed by immobile wood and stone: his weary form made weaker by the contrast. 

“What do you mean:  _ the Circle has fallen?”  _ Alistair repeated, the disbelief raw as a wound. 

Flora’s first inane thought was:  _ it hasn’t fallen, it’s still standing up.  _

** _Silly girl_ ** , retorted her general in scornful tones.  ** _Not literally._ **

Morrigan had strayed closer: the animal rustle of her feathers and beads betrayed her approach. Still wary, her curiosity had overridden her natural caution. Both Greagoir and the junior officer Carroll paused: the latter’s hand crept towards the hilt of his blade. The witch bristled, hackles rising. 

“She’s with us,” Flora said hastily, not wanting to risk the wrath of Morrigan’s frightening mother. “You can’t arrest her.” 

“I’d like to see them  _ try-! ” _

“This apostate- ” Greagoir, with his wealth of experience, had identified her in a heartbeat “- is a  _ Grey Warden?” _

“I certainly am  _ not,”  _ came the scorn-laced retort. “I would not be so dammed stupid.” 

Alistair ground his teeth, suppressing the urge to beg the senior Templar to apprehend Morrigan immediately, and store her - preferably - in their most depressing dungeon. His attention was then snared by the carnage that lay strewn beyond Greagoir: at Alistair’s lofty height, he could see what Flora could not.

“Maker’s Breath,” he said, astonished and horrified in equal measure. “What in the fel happened here?” 

Greagoir hesitated. Even part-obscured by the helm, his face seemed to close up like a trap. Then he lurched to one side : taking several stumbling steps towards the door. From the startled - and then scandalised expression - this was not entirely of his own doing. It had felt as though a great palm had nudged him between the shoulder blades. 

“Did you - did you just use your damnable  _ magic _ on me, girl?” he demanded in outrage as Flora slid past him like an eel. The words echoed within his helm and tangled together: he took it off impatiently. 

“Yes. I mean: noooo,” said Flora unconvincingly, not listening. “I think… you just lost your balance.”

The Templar’s nostrils flared. Morrigan - who had seen the subtle glint of Flora’s shield as it nudged the man aside - let out a cackle. Greagoir, who had always prided himself on maintaining an unassailable calm - realised that beads of sweat were breaking out across his forehead. He did not look well: though not even in the current circumstance would he admit feeling anything less than optimal.

Circumventing the indignant old Templar, Flora stepped into the vaulted sanctum that served as a reception area for new arrivals. During usual times, Templar officials would be posted within the circular foyer: seated at desks with quill in hand and sword bared in unsubtle warning. Flora remembered little of her own arrival, except that the clerk had guessed at her age and misheard her mumbled name:  _ Flora, of Herring _ . Thus she entered the Circle archives as  _ Flora O’Ferryn, estimated at fifteen, incapable.  _ There had been a tapestry hung on the wall behind the clerk: a garden scene that depicted a  _ halla _ asleep beneath a tree. The doe had been stitched in silver, standing out against a backdrop of dusty greens. Only when the Templar clerk prompted the trembling Flora to stand had she noticed the wolf lurking amidst the violet shadows. 

Now the quiet, dusty foyer resembled more a hospital at the rear of a battlefield. At least a dozen injured lay between the pillars, some tended to and others not. Dark veins of blood had dried between the tiles; still-wet tributaries glistened on the stone. The wounded had been stripped of their armour and robes, so it was not obvious who was Templar and who was mage. Inadequate medical supplies were scattered, and administered by weeping apprentices with trembling hands. The only calm presence came from the Tranquil servants, who glided serenely between the dying: bearing water and bandages. 

_ “Concentrate!”  _ barked an old mage, prone on the ground with a raw wound exposing much of the flesh of his thigh. “Concentrate, you fool!”

Light was sparking between the fingers of the trembling young mage kneeling at his side: but it faded into nothingness before it could make contact with the wound.

“We never - we never practised this!” 

_ “Focus, apprentice!” _

“It - it won’t stop bleeding.” 

Nearby, two Tranquil were pressing a clump of sodden bedding against the abdomen of a very still young woman, a tangle of hair covering her face. The weight did little to stop the flow of blood: she lay in a growing pool. 

The unharmed mages had been corralled into a corner, ringed with white-faced and frightened Templars. Many of them had never seen such wanton carnage. Kinloch Hold, as the residence of Ferelden’s First Enchanter, had a reputation for being an easy posting: it was run with exceptional smoothness, with little evidence of abuse and an unusual civility between the Templars and the senior hierarchy of mages. From the nightwear and dressing-robes hastily tied, the attack had come at night. 

Flora heard Alistair say something but his words were lost in the sound of the surf: the waves hurling themselves against the Teeth and the mournful  _ crack  _ of a ship tearing itself apart. Lightning lit the sky, silhouetting the pillars and vaulted ceiling. The wounded and the half-drowned lay in the shallows, shoved up onto the grit by the contemptuous sea. 

Flora blinked, banishing the echo of the  _ Ellyn Dynge.  _ The tide retreated and the chamber remade itself: the wounded were not mangled by rock and wave, but by the corrupted arcane. She recognised the odour of maleficar magic: it smelt like flesh decaying within an iron breastplate. Blood was the carrier of life and to see it tainted and used to fuel something foul made her nauseous. 

_ Sort them,  _ she thought, sweeping her eye around the casualties. 

** _You remember how? _ **

As always, her general translated for voiceless Compassion: who had lived in an Age so distant that their language bore no familiarity to the tongue that Flora spoke.

_ Those who will die no matter what. _

_ Those who will die without immediate help.  _

_ Those who might die, but not for some time. _

_ Those who can wait. _

In Flora’s experience, the patients who were the loudest were the ones who could wait. To her relief, she could see none who fell into the first grouping. These were usually those who were unrecognisable: those crushed into oblivion by a falling mast or torn into pieces by the Hag’s Teeth. There were few wounds that Flora could not mend: she cast out her gilded net and drew the dying back from the clutch of oblivion.

Alistair watched the veil lift from his sister-warden’s face: as vagueness incised into keen and bladed focus. She turned towards the woman with the bloodied belly and made for her with an assurance that he had never seen in combat. He supposed that this  _ was _ her battlefield: that Death was her opponent and the wounded woman a territory to be gained or lost. Flora was a novice with her shield - a potent weapon in the hands of a reluctant amateur - but she had been Compassion’s scalpel and thread for fifteen years. 

There was not the luxury of time: she acknowledged that there would be scars. A cobweb of flesh spread beneath her palms, each spongy patch expanding until it met neighbour. Torn vessels wound themselves together like knotted fishing line: then melted into a seamless whole. Tender spurts of bone sprang forth, bridging jagged gaps. The torn tapestry of the body was stitched and patched and made whole: Flora went from one patient to the next, listening to the voiceless instruction in her ear. 

It took Alistair several minutes to realise that he was not the only one with eyes on his sister-warden. The mages corralled in the corner were watching her in unflattering disbelief; their eyes raw with astonishment. He remembered that Flora had mentioned once that she had been widely derided by those at the Circle for her incapability, her illiteracy, her ignorance, her stunted magical ability and general vagueness. Her looks had only fuelled the ridicule: they had branded her  _ ‘the vase’  _ for her shapely exterior and apparent lack of substance. 

_ “This _ is the one who healed that Tranquil.” The old Templar, Greagoir, was speaking more to himself than Alistair: summoning a memory from the recent past. “During the maleficar’s attack in Kingsway. Thought she was only capable of distracting my lieutenants.” 

Greagoir had been so preoccupied with Jowan himself during the assault and escape that he had barely paid attention to the mage who had shielded and then healed the Tranquil. Now he gazed at Flora in consternation: he had once believed her capable only of mending bruises and mild Frost-cough. 

Alistair watched his sister-warden and the golden air spilling from her parted lips; the swift, thoughtless movements of her fingers. She was crouched over the senior instructor with the gaping wound to the thigh: his eyebrows were lodged in his hairline. 

“Maker damn Uldred!  _ You _ won’t be able to stop the bleeding, girl,” he said, in tones of doom. “It’s  _ maleficar  _ magic. Oh, or maybe you will.”

A miserable Flora wiped her bloodied mouth with her sleeve. She took no pleasure in demonstrating her capability; nor did she feel any smugness at the astonishment of her former peers. She had wanted nothing more than to arrive at the Circle, stay just long enough for them to secure the aid of the mages- and perhaps for Alistair’s lunch - and then leave. 

The mage stared down at his mended thigh, the flesh sealed over with fresh pink skin. He then looked hard at Flora; the wrinkles deepening across his forehead. 

“What’s your name? I don’t remember you. Were you in my class?”

Flora looked at the mage’s rich crimson robes; indicative of his senior status. In her four years at Kinloch Hold, she had never progressed beyond the most rudimentary of classes.

“No,” she said, unhappily. “I was only ever an apprentice. I’m Flora.”

_ “DORA?!”  _

Flora did not waste any more time responding to his incredulity. She clambered upright and went to join her brother-warden and the Templar, who had been conversing in low tones in the centre of the chamber. Morrigan was leaning against a pillar, her arms folded and dark lips pursed. 

“Flora.” 

Alistair drew her aside, lowering his voice. There was a tautness to his face; his eyes shadowed with urgency. “Flora, the place has been overrun with  _ maleficari _ . Apparently, some instructor has gone rogue and summoned a - a  _ demon  _ at the top of the tower. The First Enchanter is up there too.” 

“Uldred,” said Flora, recalling the senior mage’s curse:  _ damn you, Uldred!  _

He looked at her. “Did you know him?”

Flora shook her head miserably, glimpsing her reflection as a crimson smear on the Templar’s breastplate. She wiped her mouth once again with her sleeve, her wrists bloodied. Her belly felt as though it had been knotted and there was a painful lump wedged like a pebble in her throat. She wished for the hundredth time that Duncan had lived. It did not seem fair that her and Alistair - two recruits - had been forced into a series of such ghastly situations. 

_ First the Tower of Ishal. Then Redcliffe. Now the Circle. _

** _Child, _ ** her general replied, wearily.  ** _You were not granted your shield for naught._ **

_ But I just want to mend.  _

** _More is required. _ **

Beside her, Alistair drew in a sharp breath: he had spotted folded parchment in Greagoir’s gloved palm. The letter was sealed with black wax: an inverted cruciform shaped from two notched swords. The old Templar shot him a defiant look, but a tremor disturbed the rigidity of his jaw.

“I recognise that seal,” Flora’s brother-warden said, softly. “We learnt Templar symbology at the monastery. You’re requesting permission to carry out an Annulment, aren’t you?”

“Impudent - I don’t need  _ permission,” _ came the harsh retort. “The order is writ. I need reinforcements to carry it out.” 

It took a brave man to confront someone with Alistair’s height and the breadth of his shoulder, but Greagoir was a northerner and did not scare easily. The young Warden glanced up at the ceiling; as though he could see through the vaulted stone and beyond; to where a maleficar and his demon roamed the halls and held the First Enchanter prisoner. He thought on the treaties tucked within Flora’s shirt, and an oath that he had sworn on a rainy night over a year prior. He thought on a promise he had made more recently: one sworn amidst the terrible wreckage of Ostagar and Mac Tir’s betrayal. 

“But why does the whole Circle need to be purged?” he asked, heavily. “There could be survivors. We’ve come to enlist the help of these mages - there’s a Blight.”

The Templar shot him an incredulous look. The edges of his eyes were stained red with exhaustion.

“Then go to Jainen,” he said, naming Ferelden’s secondary, less populated Circle. “Kinloch Hold is no more.” 

“But the First Enchanter ain’t dead,” interjected Flora, herself startled at such a revelation. 

Usually her spirits gave nothing away, or allowed her only a narrow sliver of insight. But - for the span of a few moments - she had heard the echo of the old man’s heartbeat; striking a slow but steady rhythm within the confines of his chest. It rang in her ears and then faded like a Chantry bell at the end of its pealing. 

The old Templar was astonished yet again by her: his jaw went slack with surprise. 

“Irving is alive?” he said, a sudden shaft of hope falling across his face. For a second he could have been a man learning favourable news of a friend. Then his expression closed up like a portcullis: guarded and drawn. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter - they’re as good as dead up there. The place is crawling with demons and blood magic. I won’t send my men in to be slaughtered.” 

“A sensible idea,” murmured Morrigan, drawing the fur more tightly around her shoulders. “I suggest that we depart immediately. Let these ‘ _ Templars’  _ clean up the mess they  _ themselves _ created by penning up mages like beasts.” 

Greagoir eyed the long blackwood staff angled across her back with misgiving. Instinct and common sense indicated that this was a mage - worse, an  _ apostate  _ \- and in usual circumstance, he would have been calling for a mage cage and runed cuffs. But these were  _ not  _ usual times, and he had more urgent matters to attend to.

“The Tower is a tomb,” he said, curt and with his eyes sliding to the side. “We’re sealing the stairwell. I told you: try Jainen.” 

Compassion exhaled beside Flora; a long and thoughtful breath. She felt the rhythm of three dozen heartbeats like fingers tapping against her skin: the pulse of life, echoing from the floors above. Alistair, who always had one eye on his sister-warden, saw the hair at her ear flutter as if caught by the wind. 

“It ain’t a tomb,” she said, turning her pale stare on the Templar. “There are people still alive up there. You can’t seal them in.” 

Greagoir looked down at her, nostrils flared. 

“You presume much to tell me what I can or cannot do, mage.” 

Alistair interceded then, grim faced and yet steady in voice.

“What if we went up there and - and found the First Enchanter? Would you cancel the Annulment?”

He glanced swiftly at his sister-warden, but her expression - as usual - betrayed nothing. Flora’s gaze rested unblinking on Greagoir, opaque as any Orlesian mask. If she felt any reservation at venturing into a tower occupied by blood mages and demons, they did not alter the refined architecture of her face. 

The Templar let out a humourless bark of laughter, his eyes hollowed.

“Are you mad?” 

_ Probably,  _ thought Alistair, but shook his head: fixing the old soldier with a stare. 

Greagoir hesitated. The soft sobbing of the mages penned in the corner drifted towards them, amplified by the vaulted ceiling. One of them was little more than a child: he clasped a tattered book to his chest in lieu of a toy. 

The Templar then looked at the three who stood before him: the young man with the height and bulk of a bear on its hind-legs, the girl who had resisted the maleficar Jowan’s assault, and a terrifying woman who could only be a Witch of the Wilds. He was relatively certain that they were all going to die. 

“Fine,” he said, the word brittle. “Bring Irving down here - alive - and we’ll make a plan.”

As the Knight-Commander went to speak with his lieutenants, Alistair turned to Flora. She lifted her face to his and he glimpsed a flicker of apprehension within the grey eyes: so subtle that he thought he might have imagined it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, impulsive. “I didn’t mean to volunteer you, Flora. You ought to stay down here with the injured. Morrigan can come and earn her keep instead.” 

“Excuse me,” came the pointed retort.  _ “Morrigan _ comes and goes where she pleases. As it happens, there is something I seek within this blasted tower. I am not afraid of a few mages gone rogue.” 

“I’m coming,” said Flora, her brow creasing. “I need more practice with my shield.” 

_ We don’t part,  _ her eyes added; sweeping a swift glance across his face.  _ This isn’t the first tower of monsters we’ve climbed. _

He caught her meaning and half-smiled, a melancholy nod to their shared past. They had entered the ground floor of Ishal as acquaintances: hesitant and uncertain of one another, but they had emerged from its ruins as something else, forged fast together. 

Alistair had not brought his armour across the water - he had been expecting  _ brunch _ , not a battle - and there was a short delay while they tried to find garb to fit. Morrigan watched in amusement as various breastplates were tried and discarded: set against his height and broad shoulder, they looked more suited for a child. 

“I suggest a diet,” she commented, evilly. “Or a reduction programme. Perhaps you’re part Qunari? Or some grotesque dwarf-Qunari hybrid?”

Alistair, well aware that there was not an ounce of spare fat across his torso, ground his teeth and wondered if there was a spare mage cage available. He discarded another mail shirt that barely skimmed his abdomen, letting it slither to the tiles in a rustle of steel. 

“Try this one. Shame the Wardens got their hands on you before you could finish your training, lad.” 

Greagoir had guessed at Alistair’s Templar training from the way he detached his sword-belt and removed the weapon for inspection: a series of swift and orderly motions. Alistair decided that it would be best not to comment, lest he confess that Duncan’s arrival at the monastery had been one of the best days of his life. He responded instead with a noncommittal grunt -  _ like a northerner,  _ he glanced at Flora - and slithered the mail over his head. It did not fit perfectly, but it would serve. 

“You could have been posted here. That sword-arm might’ve encouraged my recruits to the drill-yard.” 

Despite the direness of the situation Alistair almost laughed, reaching down to lift the only breastplate that fit. Yet again he looked at his sister-warden, who until recently had also been a resident of Kinloch Hold. Flora was squatting like a frog between a pair of superficially wounded apprentices: making best use of time by placing a palm on each. Sensing his attention, she lifted her face to meet his stare. The corner of her mouth curved upwards in an instinctive response. 

“Ha,” Alistair said, not taking his eyes from her. “I don’t think that would have been a good idea, somehow.” 

Still, the young man entertained the notion for a few moments as he adjusted the breastplate; imagining himself patrolling the curving corridors of Kinloch Hold as a junior Templar. He was relatively certain that he and Flora would have ended up in a great deal of trouble: there was no shortage of shadowed corners and unsupervised corridors. 

While her brother-warden found a shield heavy enough to sit comfortably on his arm, Flora finished mending the last of her patients. Several of them had recognised her from her time at the Circle; she ignored their incredulous interrogation. The questions stung like the barbs of an urchin:  _ why didn’t you tell us that you could heal? Why hide it?  _

Flora had not intentionally hidden her abilities. Until Jowan’s ill-fated escape attempt, she had encountered no injury serious enough to warrant using her magic. She had happily avoided attention during her four years at the Circle: eschewing friendships for the company of her spirits. Now, with the confused and accusatory eyes of her former peers resting on her: she wished fervently that she could return to anonymity. 

“Flora?”

Her relief to be excused from the attention of others was swiftly tempered by the realisation that they were about to depart. Alistair, steely-bright and silvered in his borrowed Templar garb, stood waiting. At the far end of the foyer, a half-dozen Chantry soldiers guarded the stairwell: their blades unsheathed and pointed towards the steps. 

“Into the maw of the demon we go,” announced Morrigan, a fraction too lightly. Restless fingers touched her staff: checking that it still hung at her neck. “What a fine morning ‘tis turning out to be!”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoy bringing up the flashbacks of the Ellyn Dynge shipwreck in Flora’s mind - how the spirits influence her reality with these memories to help her cope. The shipwreck was a defining moment in her life and its so interesting to see how it impacts her later on. 
> 
> Poor Alistair, no brunch for you! To be fair I would be gutted if I was expecting a meal and got mad mages instead, lol
> 
> The system Flora is using to categorise her patients is of course the triage system used by first responders - I went down a real rabbit hole on Wikipedia reading about all the different triage standards across the world haha. 
> 
> Haaaaa imagine Alistair and Flora trapped in the same Circle together! That definitely would not end up well


	70. Broken Circle II

_ The Tower is a tomb. _

Greagoir’s doom-laced portent rang in Flora’s ears like a funeral bell, the words hollow and hopeless. If she had not known better - he was a  _ Templar  _ \- she would have believed him to be melancholy. When he spoke of the Annulment, there had been a weariness in his face that could not be entirely attributed to exhaustion. 

As she followed Alistair towards the foot of the stairs, her heart beat a quick and nervous rhythm. Kinloch Hold had been no home to Flora during her four-year stay, but it had not been  _ entirely _ torturous, either. After all, it had offered her three guaranteed meals a day, fireplaces in winter and a roof that did not leak. Some of its occupants had been cruel to her but most had been preoccupied with their studies: they were scholars, who loved to learn and hone their craft as far as was permitted. She did not want to consider the possibility that all within its curving walls were either dead or maleficar. 

_ Why didn’t you warn me?  _

** _It would have made no difference._ **

_ I could have prepared myself for it. If I’d known beforehand. _

** _Nothing could prepare you for this_ **

The knot in Flora’s belly twisted until it became a tangle of fear and dread. Alistair glanced over his shoulder, his face taut and humourless. 

“It won’t be as bad as Ishal,” he said, not wholly convinced. “I can’t see how it could be.” 

Morrigan’s lip curled: her eyes gleamed as though they had been polished. 

“What makes a worse mess of a man: demons or Darkspawn? We shall see, I suppose.”

There were six Templars guarding the stairwell with blades drawn and helms closed. They moved aside in ragged succession; their military precision shredded along with their composure. Even the senior officers had been shaken by the Circle’s collapse: Kinloch Hold had always been a quiet and uneventful posting. 

Alistair reached up to close the visor of his own helm. It fell into place with an echoing clang: his vision of the world now slatted with steel. The borrowed armour was not a perfect fit, but it would suffice - he doubted that many attacks would take on a physical form. He was grateful for his own sword, and for Flora’s shield.

“Ready?” 

“No. Let’s go.” 

Flora saw no point in lying, nor did she see the point of delaying any further. She felt vaguely nauseated. Her brother-warden gave a nod, then unsheathed his broadsword: drawing a weapon that would require a dual-handed grip from most men. 

The stair followed the curve of the tower; windowless and flanked by torches. The sharp bend of the wall meant that only the next few steps were visible to the climber. Alistair proceeded with caution, blade first. There came no sound from above, save for a constant _drip-drip-drip _from some flaw in the masonry. Their footsteps were echoed and amplified by the close confines: it sounded as though they were more than three. 

Flora had tried to count the number of steps: had counted to twelve six times, and then gave up. Greagoir’s words hung above her like a suspended blade.

“I’m sure they ain’t  _ all _ dead in there,” she whispered to Alistair’s back, unnerved by the eerie quiet. “Some will have fought back. They’re not like me: they’re skilled.” 

“Skilled in theory, perhaps,” retorted Morrigan, who was sauntering at the rear with deliberate ease. “Adept in the  _ classroom _ . Mother told me all about these  _ Circles.  _ Kept like trained mice in a cage: little tricks performed on cue.”

Alistair opened his mouth to offer a retort, and then fell silent. As much as he did not want to admit it, the witch had a point. He was spared from conceding this out loud by their arrival at a pair of wooden doors. They were shut fast, severing the stair from the next floor. 

The three gathered together on the landing; perhaps a little closer than they would have done in normal circumstances. Flora found herself between Alistair and Morrigan: inhaling a strange mixture of sword oil, sweat and the musk of animal fur. She edged herself behind the witch, feeling the stone wall press against her shoulder.

“Want to go last, do we?” Morrigan asked snidely, though in hushed tones. 

“Mm.” 

Flora had learnt a lesson in the gaol beneath Redcliffe Castle: that the enemy could attack from behind, swiftly and without warning. There came a flicker of rare approval from her general: whose standards were so lofty and obscure that Flora mostly failed to meet them. 

** _Well remembered. You can defend all positions from the rearguard. _ **

Shifting his shield onto his shoulder, Alistair nudged the door and let it open a fraction. An expanding wedge of torchlight filtered in, painting a yellow stripe across the stairwell. It fell across Morrigan’s wary, feline face: her eyes narrowed.

The corridor beyond was wide and curved, like the slow meander of a river. It also appeared deserted. Threadbare tapestries, unravelled by generations of idle young mages, hung from the walls in an attempt to preserve heat. Doors led to the apprentice dormitories at spaced intervals; these were open, save for one where the passageway curved out of sight. Usually the corridor would have been a marketplace of activity: apprentices rushing to classes with books falling from beneath their arms, senior mages so deep in conversation that they walked past their destinations, Templar soldiers overseeing the chaos with careful disapproval.

Now, the corridor was so still that it could have been a stage set in an Orlesian play: the actors not yet arrived. The stone passage stretched out before them; torchlit and silent. The woven faces of nameless Chantry peers stared blindly down from their portraits. 

“Flora, where are we?” 

Flora could not see beyond her brother-warden: whose frame blocked much of the doorway. Still, she knew well enough - the stretch of corridor had been her home for four years.

“These are the bunkrooms for the apprentices,” she whispered; never certain of her pronunciation of  _ dormitories.  _ “The classrooms are on the next floor.” 

Alistair advanced into the corridor, sword drawn. It was impossible for him to proceed quietly: the rustle of ill-fitting mail and percussive boot accompanied each step. Morrigan followed at a cautious distance; if she had been a cat, her ears would be pricked.

“I’m used to listening for Darkspawn,” Alistair observed as they passed a dour-faced priestess preserved in oils and canvas. “Useless, here. I don’t suppose either of you can sense demons? Or blood magic?”

“I’m a mage, not a Mabari,” retorted the witch as Flora shook her head. “Would you have me on my hands and knees,  _ scenting  _ out the enemy?” 

He grimaced, shooting her a wary look. 

“Ugh. Forget I asked.” 

_ It’s so quiet,  _ thought Flora unhappily as they approached the door that led into the first dormitory.  _ Where is everyone? _

There came no response but a sigh from Compassion. 

Alistair paused at the door, then gave it a tentative nudge. The door sagged as it opened, swinging on a single surviving hinge. 

Beyond lay chaos: shards of furniture so fragmented that it was impossible to tell what they had been whole; wall hangings torn from their fixings; bedding hurled into corners. The vast candelabra hung from the ceiling at a lopsided angle; two chains trailing. The ground was white as if covered with snow: strewn with pages from hundreds of eviscerated books. 

Amongst the wreckage lay bodies, some still clothed in navy robes and others exposed to the air. Flora’s first thought was that they had drowned. Her second was that this was  _ impossible,  _ they were elevated a hundred feet above the water. Yet the corpses looked so similar to those that washed up on Herring’s shore with regularity: white and bloodless, flesh spongy to the touch. There were a half-dozen in total: one was little more than a laundry pile of skin. 

Alistair inhaled a sharp and dismayed breath, lowering the blade. 

“Shit,” he said, hollow-voiced. “Poor sods. The maleficar used them up.” 

This explained the strange condition of the bodies: they had not been drowned, but drained of their last drop of blood. Flora wondered why the chamber seemed to be dissolving around her, and then realised that her eyes had flooded. It did not matter that none of her fellow apprentices had liked her: she had never wished them ill, and was horrified at the fate that had befallen them. 

** _This is not an appropriate time for tears. Save them for later, if you must. _ **

_ But - but - _

** _There are those who need help and they will suffer for any delay. If the boy sees you weeping, it will prolong matters._ **

Flora conceded that her general had a point. She had never cried in front of Alistair, and doubted that he would take it well. By the time that her brother-warden turned back, she had dutifully blinked away her grief: bundling it to the back of her mind. For the hundredth time since Ostagar, Flora was grateful for the veneer of stoicism that she had inherited from her father: he donned aloofness like a cloak. 

“Let’s try the other dormitories,” Alistair said quietly, and without much hope. “There… there might be some survivors.”

They progressed down the corridor, less cautious and more urgent now. The next few dormitories housed similar scenes of destruction. The carnage seemed to grow worse with each chamber: at the sixth, Alistair opened the door only a fraction before swiftly closing it again with his face taut. 

“No one’s alive in there,” he said, avoiding the question in his sister-warden’s eyes. “For the love of Andraste. Perhaps the Templar was right.”

_ The Tower is a tomb.  _

“He can’t be,” Flora breathed, thinking of the hundreds who dwelt within Kinloch Hold. “There  _ are _ people still alive.”

“How do you know?” 

This came from Morrigan, who had nonchalantly collected several of the scattered pages from the tiles. “It certainly resembles a charnel house here.”

Flora did not know what a charnel house was. 

“I felt them,” she insisted, following Alistair as he approached the final dormitory. “Their hearts. They beat against my skin.” 

The witch’s face twisted, sceptical. 

Alistair stopped abruptly before the door, his head tilting and hand half-raising. Both of his companions fell silent. He glanced over his shoulder, mouthing something several times before they grasped his meaning.

_ There’s something in there. _

Flora met his gaze:  _ mage or maleficar?  _

He gave a shrug, readying his blade at a precautionary angle before nudging the door open. 

The wedge of light expanded and a shout tore through the bedchamber: raw and ragged. 

_ “Stop!” _

The air before Alistair billowed into a cloud of autumnal colour: crimson and amber, shot through with indigo. The light spread outwards and then dissipated; as though a bucket of watered-down dye had been thrown against glass. He felt nothing save for a slight breeze at his ear and the acrid residue of the arcane on his tongue.

Then Flora was at his elbow and he did not recognise her: her face was terrifying, and beautiful, and wrathful as some avenging warrior goddess. He had never seen her furious before but when she opened her mouth the stream of invective that emerged was more northern fishwife than celestial deity.

“EHHH!” she yowled, enraged. “You stupid stock-fish, eel-skin, bent-hook,  _ rotted prawn  _ \- tryin’ to ROAST my - my-  _ my- ” _

Gradually, Alistair came to understand what had happened. A slender figure hovered in the space before him, his face made skull-like by fear. He wore the dark crimson robe of a Harrowed mage; although he looked too young to hold seniority. His staff was extended towards Alistair and the doorway, the head moulting still-smouldering ashes. Flora’s shield melted like dawn mist beneath the sun, stray filaments of light drifting to the tiles. It had materialised in half a heartbeat before him: intercepting the ball of flame so thoroughly that Alistair had not even felt its heat.

_ “Crab-legged, flotsam-brain, bilge water bottom-feeding- ” _

“Did you try and set me on fire?” Alistair asked, raising his voice above Flora’s indignant screeching. “We’ve come to  _ help.”  _

“I - I… ” The mage mentally flailed, eyes darting from side to side. He was exhausted: the hollows of his face made into chasms. 

“Sit down Gerwyn, and stop being such a damned fool. I promise you, when the Templars come to Annul us, they’ll send more than three.’

The voice was weary but authoritative; it came from somewhere beyond Alistair’s hesitant assailant. The dormitory was crowded with mages of all ages: though many were young and clad in their night-garb. They were clustered in small and frightened groups between the bunk beds, clutching any random possession that they had managed to save from the chaos. Most were human, but there were a few elves in their midst.

At their heart stood a woman, straight-backed and tall; her hair trapped in a faded bun of such severity that it pulled back on the skin of her forehead. Despite the devastation that surrounded her, her face bore an unruffled calm: she was perhaps entering her sixtieth year. She wore an instructor’s layered robes, and a subtle crest of seniority was stitched at her breast. 

The woman angled her pale blue stare - oddly reminiscent of Leliana - at Flora, and said, with soft authority: 

“Calm down - Flora. Your fellow Warden is unharmed. Our friend Gerwyn is merely on edge, as are we all. Understandable, really, given the circumstances.”

Four years of residence at a Circle had instilled deference to the stitched crest. The breathless Flora, astonished that a senior instructor had remembered her name, shut her mouth abruptly. She felt disorientated: it had been some time since she had embarked on a full-fledged Herring rant and it had thrown her off balance. 

The misunderstanding had come from Alistair’s borrowed breastplate, which bore inverted sword and Chantry sunburst. He looked down at himself, then at his red-faced sister-warden, who was deflating like a punctured puffer-fish. He was oddly touched by her fury: he had never seen the placid Flora so angry before, and it was on  _ his _ behalf. 

“You’re not entirely unexpected,” the senior mage continued briskly, crossing the chamber in several decisive strides. “Ralena, how much drinking water have we left? We’ll need to replenish our supplies. How should I address you-? Wardens? Warden-recruits?”

As the mage spoke, she handed bandages and poultices to those with surface wounds. Despite the fact that she was simultaneously conversing with the new arrivals, issuing instructions to her subordinate and distributing supplies; she performed all three tasks with admirable competency.

_ “Wardens _ is fine. We came to enlist the mages,” said Alistair, hastily sheathing his blade as he noticed the frightened eyes of children. “And found- ”

“Carnage.” 

The senior mage finished his sentence without prevarication: the word emerging as a blunt statement of fact. She then let out a sigh, the creases deepening across her forehead.

“I would take these young ones down, but Maker knows how the Templars would react. As far as Greagoir is concerned; the whole of Kinloch Hold has fallen to blood magic. I will not risk them.”

Flora vaguely recognised the woman as one of the instructors that had been present during Jowan’s escape. She knew very little about the upper echelons of Kinloch Hold; she had dwelt on the apprentice floor and attended the most rudimentary of classes, accompanied mostly by children and elves. The children and elves invariably graduated to intermediary instruction, leaving the illiterate and apparently incapable Flora behind. 

“There are more survivors,” she said, relatively certainly. “And First Enchanter Irwin is alive.” 

_ “Irving,”  _ corrected the senior instructor; the creases scoring her brow deepened. “How do you know?” 

Flora fell silent, her gaze wandering: drifting above the woman’s shoulder like the tail of a cloud. The mage looked at her, brows drawn together and lips pursed. Nobody spoke, and even the whimpers of the younger students ebbed away. 

The pause was broken by a leisurely, even tap; the toe of Flora’s boot marking an organic rhythm against the tile. The senior mage looked at it.

“His heartbeat,” Flora said in explanation, blinking the corporeal world back into focus. “He ain’t dead.” 

The woman inhaled a long and thoughtful breath. She did not ask how Flora knew this, but merely seemed to accept it. Her eyes made swift appraisal of the three new arrivals: a healer, a warrior and - based on impression - a Chasind apostate. Two out of the three looked to be formidable opponents. 

“I intend to go to Irving’s aid. Will you accompany me?”

_ “You _ can accompany  _ us,” _ said a dubious Alistair; reminded of a particularly bossy Chantry Mother from the monastery. He was not sure if it was even a good idea for an elder in her grey hairs to join them: what if she had a heart attack, or - worse - a  _ hernia?  _

The woman guessed the cause of his reluctance: her pale blue eye turning on him like a piece of glass. 

“I may not be in the first flush of youth,” she replied, steely. “But, believe me, I am  _ more  _ than capable. Incidentally, you may call me Wynne.” 

“Alistair,” replied Alistair, and was about to introduce his sister-warden when he remembered that the elder mage had already addressed her by name. 

“And I am Morrigan,” the witch added; having hastily stashed her stolen pages. “‘Tis my first visit to a Circle and I am  _ not entirely convinced  _ of their value.” 

For a brief moment, Wynne looked as though she was about to agree. Then, she shook her head swiftly - gathering herself - and glanced over her shoulder.

“Allow me a few moments to prepare.”

The children gathered in anxious clumps looked even more distressed at the prospect of their guardian leaving them. They did not want to be left in the company of the trembling Gerwyn, or the equally ineffectual gaggle of older apprentices. Wynne placated them with terse assurances as she retrieved a length of beech. 

While the mage prepared her staff, slotting new stones into the recess at its base and checking for damage; Alistair glanced down at his sister-warden. As usual, she was within two paces; close enough to touch with an extended finger. Her face was as still as an Orlesian mask: stoic and serene in equal part. Alistair ducked his head, angling his words through the space between them. She was three inches over five feet; he stood a foot higher. 

“Flora,” he said quietly, wanting to snare her attention and nobody else’s. “Flo.” 

Flora looked up at him expectantly. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so angry before.”

“Oh.” A faint line scored itself across her brow. “I was frightened. You were almost roasted.  _ Like a halibut.” _

Alistair swept a swift eye around the walls to check that no one was paying them too much attention. Unfortunately, most of the bedchamber’s occupants were either staring at the Warden-recruits, or at the fascinating figure of Morrigan; leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed. 

Undeterred, Alistair returned his gaze to the pale heart of Flora’s face. He wanted to touch her: to trace the line of her jaw from her ear to the apex of her chin. He wanted to commit the construction of bone and flesh to memory; to imprint a delicate pattern of her skull on his consciousness. He could not explain why, except that it was borne from a need more complex and visceral than desire. Her irises were so pale that they stole colour from the torchlit air around her; leeching veins of shifting gold. 

“Flora,” he breathed again, astounded that he had ever found the name to be dull and prosaic: the label of a thousand ordinary peasant girls. 

In spite of the chaos that surrounded them, she smiled at him; eyes curious. 

“Oh,  _ desist,”  _ cut in the acerbic Morrigan, her voice like a thief’s blade prying them apart. “The situation is dire enough as it is without you two making it  _ worse.”  _

“I’m ready. Shall we go?”

The senior instructor - Wynne - had readied her staff and exchanged a casual dressing robe for one with a heavier weave: still, it would bear little protection against an ill-intentioned spell. 

Flora eyeballed the older woman, and realised with trepidation that this was another person she would need to shield. She knew that her barrier could resist the assault of one maleficar, but was unsure if it could withstand the assault of simultaneous attack. She did not know if it would last against demonic magic.

_ What if everyone runs in three different directions? I only have two eyes.  _

_ Can I make my eyes go in different directions to help keep track? _

** _…._ **

** _!! No. _ **

The responsibility for keeping her companions intact felt like a length of six-inch thick rope tangled around her: of the tarred and braided sort that kept galleons anchored in port. 

_ What if I make a mistake?  _

** _What if you don’t? _ **

Flora blew out her cheeks in a long and gloomy exhalation, aware that she would gain little sympathy from her general. She thought of her father, who had borne responsibility for those who worked on his boat; taking the helm as they steered into the wild heart of the Waking Sea. He had never protested at the burden that he bore: then again, he had never complained of much except bent hooks and broken lines. 

_ He just got on with it.  _

** _He did. _ **

_ Worrying… it doesn’t really help anything, does it?  _

** _No._ **

In her mind Flora adjusted the heavy rope of responsibility until it draped across her shoulders: still there, but less distracting and a little easier to bear. 

“It ain’t getting any calmer out there” she said out loud, grateful for the natural nonchalance of her face. “Let’s go. ” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I could animate two seconds worth of footage, it would be Flora looking like a avenging goddess of antiquity and screeching like a deranged harpy, lol. And all it took was the prospect of Alistair getting a fireball to the face to unlock the wrath of a Herring fishwife! 
> 
> Anyway, here we go into the Circle! We’ve met Wynne, who (sorry Wynne!) I’m downgrading to a regular mage in this story since Flora has the role of the spirit healer. I did her slightly dirty in the original by making her a bit of a batty old shrew, definitely going to amend that this time.
> 
> lol I love how Morrigan just has NO time for Alistair and Flora making eyes at each other.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	71. Duncan, Victorious

“Welcome back to the land of the living,  _ qhira _ .” 

Flora felt the physical world reshape itself piecemeal around her, one sense restored after the other. The smell of smoke - warm, woody and with an edge of something she could not describe - lingered in her throat. Some distance away, muffled by canvas, came the sound of celebration. The raised voices were infused with near-manic joy; the singing blurred by an excess of ale. There was gentle pressure on her palm: a calloused warmth set against the skin. 

Like the night sky paling to grey before dawn, the tent came into gradual view around her. Obscure, shadowed masses clarified into the familiar: an armour stand hung with silver and white linen; a low table with a charcoal burner set at its centre; a writing desk buckling beneath correspondence. The canvas walls were concealed entirely by woven hangings: geometric patterns stitched in hues of cream, crimson and ochre. 

Flora reached her free hand to her face and rubbed it across her eyes. She sat up on the bunk and the tent tilted around her: the world was not set right on its axis.

“Steady,” came the voice again, warm and familiar. The pressure on her fingers increased into a firm grip: someone was holding her hand. “You’ve been unconscious for some time. Don’t worry - the way they’re carrying on, I think the celebrations will last until Satinalia.” 

The first part of his face that came into view were the eyes: dark and hot as coal. The rest of the coarse, careworn features assembled themselves as Flora’s vision righted itself; Duncan smiled as he saw recognition dawn at last. 

“How are you feeling,  _ alma _ ?” 

Flora grimaced, adjusting her position to avoid the creaking spot on the bunk, She knew where she was now; the surroundings made familiar by her frequent visits over the past month. A portion of every evening had been spent in the Warden-Commander’s tent: at first, only a quarter-candle, then elongating to a full candle-length as their time was filled in ways other than mending. Duncan had coaxed more from Flora on the topic of her spirits than she had ever revealed before. In return, he had told her of his native Rivain: of the spirit healers who lived near the water; the mages who walked freely amongst the people; and his own misspent youth in the underbelly of Dairsmuid. 

“My head feels odd,” Flora replied in a whisper, wondering why the cloying miasma of sleep was not fading. 

“I’m not surprised,” he replied, leaning forward to adjust the kettle’s angle above the charcoal burner. The bunk gave a creak of protest: it had never been keen on too much vigourous movement. 

“You hit it hard during the assault at Ishal. I’m sorry that I sent you and Alistair up there,  _ qhira.  _ You know I never intended for you to get involved in the fighting.” 

As Duncan spoke, he slid the callused ball of his thumb across the inside of Flora’s wrist: a gesture of casual familiarity and yet oddly intimate. The fraying seam of a bandage edged beneath his sleeve, but he did not move like an injured man. 

“Alistair,” Flora repeated, frustrated at the sluggish working of her mind. The name of her brother-warden had dredged up a sliver of memory, but when she tried to grasp it, it slithered away like an eel. “Where is he? Did he… did he get hurt too?”

She remembered now: they had been instructed to climb the Tower of Ishal and light the beacon at its apex. Duncan let out a soft laugh, taking the kettle from the burner as it began to protest. The muffled exchange of a drunken argument filtered through the canvas; raised voices slurring their insults. 

_ FOOL! You —- idiot!  _

_ You’d—- realise. —PID CHILD!  _

“Only his pride is hurt,” the Warden-Commander said, pouring the contents of the kettle into two dented vessels. “I’m afraid,  _ qhira,  _ that he is still sulking from not being chosen to participate in the battle itself. He’s refusing to join in with the celebrations.” 

Flora frowned, and opened her mouth to say:  _ I should go to him. Make sure he’s alright.  _

She then remembered that Alistair would most likely not welcome her concern: he viewed her with a deep and visceral suspicion that went to the bone. He was open about his dislike and mistrust of mages: only recently, he had labelled her magic as  _ weird.  _

_ Alistair’s not my friend,  _ Flora reminded herself, brow furrowed. She was not sure why this seemed oddly jarring: a thought that did not belong amongst the rest. 

_ My brain must be all rattled from the blow I took at Ishal.  _

“Here.” 

He sat, the mattress gave a creak of protest at the additional burden. Flora inhaled the tea slowly - she had never grown a taste for it, despite it being the drink of choice at the Circle - and felt a little better.  _ This _ was familiar: Duncan seated beside her in the inconstant candlelight. The flame’s aura touched the golden ring looped through the Rivaini’s left ear: it stood out bright against the greying hair. Clutching the cup in one hand, she reached out to touch the slender hoop: more out of habit than curiosity.

“If I put a hole in my ear, it would just heal,” she breathed as he tilted his head in deference to her. “I thought that it was your other ear that was pierced.”

There came the briefest of pauses, then Duncan smiled at her: knowing and familiar.

“Don’t you want to know how the battle went, little goshawk?”

Flora’s brow furrowed, hand drifting away from her commander’s ear. For some inexplicable reason, the fact that the Darkspawn had been defeated - the Archdemon slain and the Fifth Blight ended - did not take up the prominence in her mind that such a momentous occasion ought to have done. She could not explain it, but the victory seemed oddly surreal;  _ impersonal,  _ almost as though it had taken place in a story from some distant Age. 

“What happened in the battle?” 

Flora felt as though she were asking someone to recall a dream. Duncan took her cup before it could spill the remainder of its contents.

“Cailan insisted on leading the charge. I’m surprised you couldn’t hear him bellowing all the way at the top of Ishal. Still, he fought well. The Archdemon took some time to kill, but we managed it.” 

Flora’s eyes dropped from Duncan’s face to his body: moving across what seemed to be a whole and unscathed torso. He smiled, giving a wry shake of the head.

“I’m as surprised as you,  _ qhira.  _ I expected to take - to take some wound, at least. But we were exceptionally lucky.” 

A wide-eyed Flora nodded, astonished. She still did not really understand what the Archdemon was - or what it  _ had  _ been - but was unsure whether it was even relevant any more. If the Darkspawn had been defeated, then what were the Grey Wardens  _ for?  _ She hoped very much that she would not be sent back to the Circle Tower.

As she thought about Kinloch Hold, a sliver of memory caught the light within her mind: showing a long and curving corridor on an upper floor. The passage was strewn with loose pages and upended furniture; as though a headstrong gale had swept through the narrow confines. A door hung from a hinge; a figure lunged from the shadows with the whites of its eyes stained a bloody red.

Flora - disconcerted - blinked the image away. She had no time for the odd trickeries of the mind, especially when they were entirely fictional. The Tranquil kept the Circle passageways impeccably clean and clear of obstacles. Duncan’s fingers lingered near her ear: rubbing a strand of hair gently between his thumb and index finger. She looked down at her lap, shy and yet pleased at the attention.

“Commander.” 

A man clad in the distinctive livery of a Warden had entered the tent; head bowed in deference to his senior office. The horizontal stripes of his tunic were reduced to black and grey in the candlelight.

“The priestesses are complaining again, ser,” the visitor said, not bothering to hide his smirk. “Says that our celebrating is inappropriate and that we ought to beware the wrath of the Chantry Mother.”

He then turned to Flora, and his mouth made the shape of the last word three times before it emerged from his throat. 

_ Beware! _

Head turning, Flora stared at the strange visitor as he took his leave. Her brain felt as though it had come adrift from her skull: nothing made sense. 

“After what I’ve seen,” the Warden-Commander replied with a chuckle, setting her glass back on the low table. “I have no fear of an old woman in a tall hat.”

“Where’s Alistair?” 

She heard the words emerge unprompted from her throat. Duncan rose to his feet with the youthful ease that she had granted him, crossing the tented chamber to methodically knot the trailing bindings of the door. Once the flap was pulled taut, it melted seamless into the canvas until there was no indication of an exit. 

_ “Qhira,”  _ he replied in a half-laugh, shooting her an amused glance over his shoulder. “All this talk of Alistair. Are you trying to make me jealous?” 

Flora drew the folds of the blanket between her fingers, tracing the pattern stitched near its seam. She had believed herself familiar with all of Duncan’s bedding - after all, she had spent many hours seated on this bunk - but this blanket was unknown to her. She did not understand why her mind still felt buoyant; as though she were holding her breath and observing the world from underwater. 

“No-o,” she said in response, uncertain. 

The tent was not large and the body of her commander dominated even without his armour. Duncan bent his head to avoid a lantern hanging from a wooden ceiling-rib, his eyes settling back on her. He was not smiling anymore: instead he looked weary and each one of his five hard-lived decades. There was a sallow veneer to his skin that leeched the richness; his eyes cast in shadow. 

Alarmed by the apparent sea-change in his constitution, Flora stretched a hand through the space between them, her fingers opening in entreaty.

“Let me help you,” she implored, pale gaze searching his face. 

As Duncan crossed the tent, Flora kept her hand extended: worried that he might deteriorate further before her eyes. He sat on the bunk beside her with a sigh, passing a swift palm over his face. She could see the creases dug around his eyes and the shoulders bowed beneath the commander’s mantle. 

_ You know, I never wanted to be a Warden,  _ he had told her one damp autumn evening, when the sound of the rain had muffled his doubts from eavesdroppers. 

_ I was conscripted by a woman named Genevieve. I ran away twice in the first month; both times, they found me and dragged me back.  _

_ The third time I tried, I was escorted to Genevieve’s quarters and she told me that there was a Tevinter god named Orcus who came after oathbreakers and devoured them in their sleep. I didn’t believe her, but I didn’t run away again. _

Flora had placed each of Duncan’s absentminded recollections in her mind: storing them carefully like delicate beads of glass. Every so often she would remove them and repeat the words to herself; polishing the memory so that it would not grow dull. She was a daughter of Herring; stories were not told in books, but through remembered words. 

He took her hand and his palm was as cold as a drowned man’s. Flora grasped it in both of hers: wishing that she were the sort of mage who could summon heat in the beat of a heart.

“Let me help you,” she repeated, anxious now. “My magic must have worn off.” 

_ Why didn’t it last as long this time?  _

The ale-addled men were still fighting outside: exchanging flailing blows that seemed to make no dent to their opponent.

_ “Idiot!  _ Can’t you see that—- ”

_ “WAKE UP!”  _

This made no sense, but drunkards were not expected to be coherent. Flora turned over the hand in her lap; pressing her thumb against his wrist to feel the pulse. She could feel nothing, but reasoned that Duncan was cold and perhaps his veins were hiding. 

The Warden-Commander watched Flora study his hand with furrowed brow, his gaze soft and oddly regretful.

“Do you pity me,  _ alma?”  _ he asked her gently; without judgement. “Is that why you humour the affections of a dying man?”

Her eyes met his: the pale iris and the dark joining.

“No,” she said after a moment, quiet enough that he had to lean close to hear her. “I don’t pity you.” 

“Are you sure?” There was a smile in the question, but his gaze was serious. “I don’t know what you would see in this old fool.”

As Duncan gestured to himself, the word  _ fool _ echoed about the tent, as though the canvas walls were repeating the word.

_ FOOL! Fool!  _

_ You —- fool.  _

Flora did not know how to explain that it was more what  _ he _ saw in  _ her _ . Thanks to Duncan, she had learnt about the spirit healers of Rivain who spent half their lives daydreaming and the wise women who inhaled smouldering peacebloom and touched the Fade with their minds. The mages of Ferelden’s northern deserts were neither ostracised nor imprisoned: they lived amongst their peers without prejudice. It had been a revelation for Flora. 

_ Spirit healer:  _ her commander had been the first to name her such, thus elevating her from limited to specialised. 

_ You have a rare gift.  _

_ You are a rare gift. _

Flora did not know how to respond and so she looked back at him in silence. The world felt foreign and malleable around her; she clutched his hand in the hope that it would act as an anchor. The sounds of celebration from beyond the tent had waned into a soft background hum; the drunken argument lost beneath the wind. Duncan reached out to touch her upper arm, the flesh visible where the shirt hung loose. 

_ It’s too big because it’s Alistair’s shirt,  _ Flora thought to herself, vaguely confused.  _ Why am I wearing Alistair’s shirt?  _

The question slithered from her mind as Duncan stroked his thumb down the skin; caressing her upper arm with the careworn tips of his fingers. The lingering touch left a prickling aftermath across the skin. Transfixed, Flora did not move, or breathe. She wondered if the writhing heat in her belly had reached her face. Duncan held her pink cheek within his palm and kissed her. 

The canvas walls of the tent groaned as though withstanding a gale, then pulled fretfully at their bindings. The wind at Ostagar was a living thing: like a feral Mabari, it wrestled fabric in its teeth and rampaged around the crumbling parapets. Now it howled outside the confines of Duncan’s tent and attempted to slide chill fingers through the slits in the canvas. It would be frustrated: there  _ were _ no gaps in the canvas, no flap for entrance or exit, only a seamless span of fabric that severed the occupants from the alien landscape beyond.

Within the tent, the candles did not flicker, or move at all; each flame hovered static above its wick. The pattern on the blanket was disintegrating; the ochre and crimson embroidery blurring like paint on an artist’s palette.

Propped on an elbow he lay above her; the blankets thrust from the bunk to create more room. It was only a single berth and not intended for two. Flora gazed up at him, caught between hesitation and anticipation. She did not know why she felt lightheaded: it was not  _ possible  _ for her to be drunk since her body purified alcohol the moment it touched her tongue. One elbow pressed the mattress beside her shoulder; Duncan’s face a few inches above hers. 

_ “Qhira,”  _ he said gently, and his eyes were set warm and youthful against the faded flesh. “Do you remember what I said to you before the battle? When we were alone together, here in the tent.” 

Flora was frustrated by the murky waters in her skull: she knew that she was not intelligent, but her mind did not usually work  _ this  _ slowly. It felt as though she were hauling up an anchor that had been tangled in some underwater debris: the memory took time and effort to retrieve. Duncan smiled at her, patient. 

  
“You said,” she replied, the words tentative. “You said that you had overstepped your bounds by kissing me. And that you weren’t going to act any further on your - on your desire.” 

The Warden-Commander inclined his head in acknowledgement. His gaze lingered on the only softness to be found on Flora’s sculpted face: the full and pliant mouth. 

“Well, little one,” he murmured, allowing the weight of his body to press her into the mattress. “I’ve changed my mind.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, lol. Of course this is just a conjuration of the Sloth Demon, but Flora is convinced by it! I tried to put in a lot of clues that something wasn’t right (horizontal stripes for the Grey Warden tunic, hahaha, not good for the waistline!) and we also have her spirits trying to penetrate Flora’s befuddled mind (mostly her general yelling FOOL at her, lol). 
> 
> I thought this would be a more interesting way to enter the Fade bit than the traditional fighting the way up the Circle - Flora has a flashback of the fighting but just passes it off as an odd daydream.
> 
> It wasn’t hard for me to write all this so quick - any Duncan content I just churn out at rapid pace haha. I think he’s such a complex character, though I do try and put my own interpretation on things too. I like the idea that he (the real world version) actually recognised that his desire for Flora was inappropriate and stopped it before they went too far. Of course, this is the demon’s conjured and twisted version, soooooo.... anyway! Next chapter is going to be interesting XD


	72. Alistair’s Strange Dream

_ The most important element in a smithy isn’t the metal.  _

_ It’s not the forge nor the anvil, nor the hammer or tongs.  _

_ It isn’t the crude pieces of iron, or steel, or copper, waiting to be smelted and shaped and hardened into something useful, or something deadly.  _

_ The most important element in a smithy is the water.  _

Water cooled smoking metal in a sibilant hiss; it prepared the surface of the anvil for striking; it quenched fires and stopped a burn from penetrating the flesh. It was Alistair’s custom to ensure that the buckets were filled to the brim even before he fired the forge for the day. If he ever had the inclination to take on an apprentice, the boy would spend half his day drawing up buckets from the well.

Still, Alistair did not mind bringing the water in himself: at least he could be sure that the buckets were filled instead of entrusting them to some pockmarked gangle-limbed adolescent. 

The buckets were full and it was a fine day: the windows framed a sky of limpid green. There was no wind to disturb the long grasses below or the cobwebbed cloud above. Deep in the nearby hedgerow, a bird demanded a response from its mate.

Once the water had been checked, Alistair stood back and surveyed his small dominion. The smithy was little more than a lean-to built against their cottage, shingle and piled-up stone; but the forge fired as hot as any castle blacksmith. Despite the humble premises Alistair had no shortage of business - his hammer-arm was renowned across the Bannorn - and a list of commissions was pinned to the wall beside the door. 

The first job of the day was a simple one: to knock the dents out of a long-suffering shield. Alistair crossed the smithy in a few strides; the shield had been delivered the previous evening and was propped against the wall. It was broad and dull in hue, a solid bulwark that had taken several death-blows on behalf of its owner. When he turned it to face the fire, the silver griffon seemed to move in the shifting light. It raised a clawed foot and extended a wing; a proud head tilted back. 

Alistair felt a strange itch at the back of his mind: a memory struggling to unfurl itself. He looked at the silver griffon and wondered where he had seen it before.

After a moment he turned the shield back so that it faced the wall; inspecting the worn leather strapping. It had come loose at one bracket and would require new pins. 

The birds had fallen silent outside; a sign that someone was near. Alistair glanced towards the open space leading into the living quarters of their cottage, but his wife had not yet woken. He could see the wooden foot of their bed, and the red tail of a blanket hanging near the ground. 

He was about to shovel a heap of charcoal into the furnace - once the forge was ignited, the fire would burn until sunset - when there came a rap at the window. 

Alistair turned at a measured pace. A man who stood at three inches past six feet was not accustomed to being startled. There was a shape in the mottled glass panel: a crude outline of a figure that lacked any discernible features. He waited until the newcomer appeared in the doorway, face obscured by a hood.

Again, Alistair was not unduly alarmed - although the stranger could claim a similar impressive height; he seemed to be all skin and bone beneath the cloak. Alistair had a multitude of weapons - and tools that could be repurposed as such - only a few steps away. Instead of reacting with consternation at the arrival of a masked stranger, he loaded the shovel into the fire. The charcoal made a sound like the rustle of dead leaves as it settled at the empty heart of the hearth. 

“How can I help you?” 

Alistair turned back to the doorway, pulling on a pair of leather gloves that reached to the elbow. Despite their protection, his forearms were mottled with flecks of heat: a spray of white scars embedded in the flesh like heather.

_ If Flora was here,  _ he found himself thinking.  _ She wouldn’t have left any marks. _

_ Her mending was like art. It was flawless. _

_ Wait, where is she? _

“I’ve a difficult task,” said the stranger, and there was a hoarseness to each word: as though they had been scraped hollow out before emerging from the throat. “And I’ve heard that you’re the best man for it.” 

_ She’s in the cottage, of course. Where else would she be? _

Flattery had never worked on Alistair, but he offered a polite half-smile in response. 

“I’m sorry, ser,” he said, in tones of measured apology. “I’ve a half-dozen jobs that need to be finished before sundown and I’m not working tonight.” 

Alistair remembered suddenly why he was busier than usual: his sister and her children were visiting that evening. He had promised his chattering nephew that he would show him how to forge a sword - perhaps he might even shape the excitable boy a blunt iron blade, if Goldanna permitted it. 

The stranger paused in the doorway before making a response, the greenish sunlight bending around his silhouette. He then took a measured step inside, and Alistair noticed that his cloak was sopping wet. The faint sound of water trickling onto tile accompanied his entrance; he left puddles in his wake. There was a strong odour of salt. 

“Is it raining outside?” Alistair asked easily, noting the location of his smith’s hammer. “Thought it was going to be a fine day.” 

“It hasn’t rained for a long time,” replied the stranger, reaching inside his cloak.

Alistair tensed but only a flat, square wooden box emerged from the damp folds of fabric.

“I was hoping you’d repair this for me.” 

The words came from beneath the hood and their timbre was oddly familiar. Alistair recognised the wryness and melancholic edge: it mirrored his own manner of speaking. His eyes moved from the box, to the stranger’s hooded face. He could glimpse the edge of a jaw, chiselled in a broad plane. The flesh clinging to it was sagging and bloodless; it did not look healthy.

“What’s in the box?” he asked quietly, willing his wife to stay asleep.

The chin lifted and the light from the hearth slid briefly within the hood; illuminating the white purity of bone. Gloved fingers released the clasp and lifted the lid of the case, opening it fully. Inside rested a bronze diadem: peaked at intervals and engraved with Alamarri runes. There was no cushion to protect it from its crude wooden housing: a crack in the metal nearly split the headpiece in two.

Alistair looked at the crown for a long moment, unblinking. The world seemed to hang motionless around him: the air still and the birds silent. 

“I don’t want this,” he said eventually, then amended: “I don’t want to  _ repair _ this. I’ve enough work to be getting on with today.” 

The stranger’s hood fell back to reveal the head of a drowned man: scraps of flesh clung to a skull that sat lopsided atop the neck. The softer parts of his face had been scavenged and one side of his jawbone hung loose. 

“You must set aside other work,” said the stranger, not unkindly. “This is more important.”

The smooth curve of bronze was hypnotic: flawless in construction, it snared the light like a mirror. Alistair found himself admiring the craftsmanship: it was no ornate Orlesian tiara, snarled up with curlicues and excess flourishes. The jewelsmith had created a piece that was captivating in its stark simplicity.

After a moment, he caught himself with a sharp inhalation:  _ what was he doing? _

“I have to go to my wife,” he said numbly and without thinking, turning towards the open doorway that led to the living quarters.

He immediately regretted this disclosure: why had he revealed the existence of his sweet girl to this ill-intentioned guest? The skeleton did not react, but lifted a harrowed finger; eyeless sockets staring. 

Alistair felt the press of metal on his brow. 

“My wife is through there,” he repeated; although his feet felt fixed to the ground as though soldered to the earth. “I have to go to her.”

A figure appeared in the doorway, of medium build and yet clad in armour of such intricacy and bulk that they appeared twice the size. It had the form of a man of at least sixty years, the hawkish features dessicated by age. A prominent nose jutted from sallow cheeks, and angry eyes glowered beneath an array of bristling brows. The hair fell like a length of faded rope down the back. 

Alistair’s jaw dropped. 

“You’re not my wife,” he said, astonished. “Are… are you?” 

The figure in the doorway shot him a glare of open derision. Their armour was carved with artisanal skill: wreaths of laurel intertwined with a host of tall towers. The pattern moved beneath the eye like a painter’s trick: melting and reforming in a constant maelstrom. 

“You have no wife. Nor have you a forge. This is merely conjuration of your mind.  _ Begone!”  _

Alistair flinched, but the man’s sharp instruction was directed over his shoulder: at the skeletal figure amidst its folds of fabric. The figure evaporated in a gloaming haze of mist; the cloak and gloves disintegrating into scraps that were blown from the smithy by a sudden swirl of wind. It had not vanished of its own volition, but vaporised from existence by the bark of the new arrival. 

“What,” said Alistair, helplessly. “What in the fel is going on?” 

Despite his superior height and build, he felt as though a palm was pressing him back into the wall. The armour-clad man had a presence that dominated the confines of the smithy: as though they were some potent, magnetic type of energy. 

The figure that had the form of a man turned to look at him, and this time they appeared to be only in their mid-thirties. The face was ascetic but not yet scraped thin with age; the twisted rope of hair was steeped in the rich blackness of Antivan ink. Unchanged were the disdainful stare and the scowl. 

_ “You are in the Fade.”  _

_ A hand coated in liquidous metal waved and the walls of the smithy blew away like dust; the cottage collapsing in on itself as though it were made from sheets of parchment. Alistair found himself standing in a bleak and alien landscape of rocks and sky. Ruined towers soared above chasms of endless darkness; half-built bridges with impossible engineering reared overhead. The horizon was in constant motion: like an Orlesian shadow theatre that shifted its scene with each turn of the wheel. The distant outline of an abandoned city was replaced by a series of cascading waterfalls, which then solidified into a cliff face riddled with caverns. Distance appeared to be an ever changing illusion. The sunless sky was a turmoil of green and black: it bathed the strange landscape below in an equally unnatural hue. The atmosphere was charged with static as though a thunderstorm was near.  _

_ Alistair heard a string of half-intelligible curse words, barely coherent and infused with a blend of incredulity, disbelief and alarm. Eventually, he realised that they were emerging from his own throat.  _

_ The armoured figure - who once again appeared riven with age - shot him a look of pure exasperation. _

_ “You visit the Fade each time you dream, though you do not remember it. Shall I make it more palatable for you?” _

_ Once again, the gauntlet moved through the lyrium-spiced air. Within the blink of an eye, the world around Alistair changed once more. Now he was standing within an inner courtyard of Redcliffe Castle: each detail replicated as far as he could remember. What he could not retrieve from memory - the placement of windows _ ,  _ the emblems on the banners - faded into a colourless blur. The cobbles underfoot swam like a receding tide; the sky overhead kept its sour green hue. _

_ “I need you useful,” snapped the figure; who seemed to gain and or lose decades dependent on the angle it was viewed. “Will this suffice?” _

_ Alistair looked at the man: weighed down by the size and ornamental splendour of the armour. It seemed the type of man who belonged atop a warhorse, at the head of a mighty host.  _

_ “You’re Flora’s general,” he said suddenly, coherent now that the surroundings were a fraction more familiar. “One of her spirits. She told me about you.”  _

_ The general’s imperious nostrils curdled at the description: ‘Flora’s spirit’. Still, it gave a brief, confirming tilt of the head.  _

_ “How - how did this even happen? Wait.”  _

_ A memory had risen unprompted in Alistair’s mind: a corridor that appeared more a battlefield than part of a domestic dwelling. A mage, eyes white and staring against a bloodied face, staggered out from a side chamber. Instead of a staff, he drew a dagger and, without hesitation, opened up his own cheek to the bone.  _

_ “We were trying to reach the First Enchanter,” Alistair said, slowly. “We climbed the Tower. There were no more survivors, just maleficar. No - there was one survivor, a half-mad Templar.”  _

_ The general looked bored; as though it had already heard Alistair’s story a dozen times. Perhaps it had: time did not run linear in tbe Fade.  _

_ “There were of us,” Alistair continued, watching a six-legged mouse scamper along the cobbles. “Flora, me, the witch and - some old woman we met lower down. A senior instructor. We reached the top floor, and- ” _

_ Here, his memory failed him. He could remember arriving at the top floor of the Tower, breathless and sweaty. He had glanced over his shoulder to see Flora hovering at his back. She was as white as a winding sheet, the pupils huge within the cool grey irises. Alistair could feel the adrenaline juddering from her in waves, and yet not a single blow or travelling spell had struck home. He wished fervently that she had been able to stay on the ground floor with the wounded, but she had been cursed with a shield of exceptional potency. Without Flora’s barrier, they would not have been able to ascend above the third floor.  _

_ When he scraped at the recesses of his mind Alistair could just recall a pair of doors, and fingers of a strange and unnatural light sliding beneath them. He could not remember what had lain beyond those doors, only that it was terrible.  _

_ A solid lump of dread took up residence in Alistair’s belly. He looked around at the four unassuming walls of the courtyard, and then at the spirit that stood beside him. The laurel engraved on its breastplate moved as though it were alive. _

_ “Where is she?” he asked, head swivelling once again as if Flora might emerge from one of the floating barrels.  _

_ The general’s lip curled.  _

_ “Falling victim to her own misplaced sentimentality,” it retorted, wrinkled and imperious as some aged emperor. _

_ Alistair’s mouth opened and closed: he had no idea what meaning he was meant to extract from such an oblique statement.  _

_ “She has wilfully imprisoned herself in a tent with an effigy of your dead commander.”  _

_ A maelstrom of emotion passed through the young man; rocking him like a small boat on a cruel tide. Still, he thrust down the less important parts into his belly - to mingle with the dread - until only the steely bite of fear remained.  _

_ “Then she’s in danger,” he said, the words curdling in his throat. “I have to help her.”  _

_ “She has to help  _ herself,” r _ etorted Flora’s general, tight-lipped with fury. “But your presence may quicken her understanding.”  _

_ Alistair reached down for his sword, and withdrew only a child’s tin blade: the end rounded and blunt. He stared and then swore, dropping the toy to the cobbles. The general let out a snort, amused at the notion of a traditional weapon in such alien circumstances.  _

_ “How do I get to her?”  _

_ Alistair expected the words to emerge as a plea but they came out as a demand.  _

_ Flora’s spirit arched an eyebrow now free from grey hairs; the lips tautening.  _

_ “They lie yonder.”  _

_ The finger rose towards the highest tower in Redcliffe Castle, which arced above the others with a lofty prominence that its tangible counterpart could never aspire to. Alistair gazed up at the tower, stomach curdling with dismay. He was sure that Eamon’s keep did not possess so many stairs.  _

_ “Can’t you - can’t you just transport us up there?”  _

_ “We could.” The stern expression added years to even the younger counterpart of Flora’s general. “But your mind would be shattered. Do you wish to wake a madman?”  _

_ He briefly considered it - anything to reach her - and then shook his head, despondent. _

_ “And we cannot intervene directly with our feckless progeny. She has so little brains as it is: we would not scramble them further. She must be made to see sense.”  _

_ Alistair nodded, distracted and not really listening. He had just noticed that the portcullis at the base of the tower had been replaced by a door more sized for a child than for a grown man. He stared at it for a despairing moment - he fucking hated the Fade! - and then set out across the courtyard.  _

_ The general did not walk beside him, but appeared at the edge of the small door. Alistair looked over his shoulder - the armoured figure still stood at the centre of the courtyard - and then back at the door. His suspicions were confirmed: the spirit seemed to reside in both places simultaneously.  _

_ “How can you do that?!” he demanded, fighting back the terrible thought of his sister-warden in demonic clutches. “Be in two places at once.”  _

_ The general looked at him with eyes that glittered like the furthest reaches of the night sky. _

_ “But we are in neither.”  _

_ Alistair contemplated this for a heartbeat, and then set it aside. He reached out to grasp the handle of the door; half-expecting it to turn into an eel between his fingers. To his intense relief, it remained inanimate. The young man took a deep breath, reminding himself that he had been in the Fade before - it was where all minds journeyed during sleep, save for dreamless dwarves - and so this was not entirely unfamiliar terrain. He did not dwell on the fact that this was the first time he had experienced consciousness on the far side of the Veil.  _

_ Before he made the door yield, Alistair turned to look at Flora’s general. The spirit of Valour was staring off into the distance with a vague boredom that, oddly, reminded Alistair of his missing sister-warden.  _

_ “Flora’s not stupid,” he said, defensive. “She might not be clever, but… but I’ve watched her squeeze a man’s heart with her bare hand and make it beat again.”  _

_ The general eyed him, mildly curious. Alistair felt the world sway around him; the ground beneath his feet shuddering. At first he thought it another infernal trick of the Fade, then realised that he had been struck by a wave of longing so potent that it had made him dizzy. He wanted Flora at his side as she had been when they were climbing the Tower; close enough that he could reach back a hand and touch her.  _

_ “Then go to her,” said the general, impatient.  _

_ Alistair reached for the door handle with renewed determination.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha how obvious is it that I know fuck all about blacksmithing? I did spend 0.3 seconds googling medieval smithing but it looked so mystifying that I gave up lol. 
> 
> Anyway, in keeping with my own interpretation of the Fade sequence, now we have Alistair’s experience. I changed it from the game’s version because that’s what I do, haha. Plus I despise Goldanna and Blizz retconned her being Alistair’s sister anyway :P Or at least her importance is vastly diminished.
> 
> I also liked introducing Flora’s general as a more tangible character, considering the fact that they’ve been ‘speaking’ in the story as long as any main character.


	73. The Tower In The Fade

_ Flora’s general - with a casual gesture - had moulded the raw Fade into a model of Redcliffe Castle; yet, for all its external similarities, it was no true likeness. The architecture was wrong; the battlements ran crooked as though drawn by a childish hand, and there were windows where no chambers existed. The door, which seemed to be made for a child, accommodated Alistair with ease. He found that he did not need to duck, and straightened up; wishing fervently that he had some sort of weapon. The air prickled with a strange and restless energy, like the herald of an approaching storm. _

_ To Alistair’s astonishment, he had not emerged into the cavernous space of the great hall. The entrance that he had used ought to have led to the vast hall used by the arl for feasts and public audiences. It was where they had fought Connor Guerrin, bisected with long tables set out in a military formation. _

_ Instead, to his dismay, the courtyard door led instead to the castle kitchens: a mazelike complex of interconnected chambers. He knew Redcliffe’s kitchens well enough - he had often been expelled from their tempting depths - and this conjured version was not the same hot and smoky warren that he had navigated as a child. The hearth curdled with green flame and he did not recognise the smell drifting from the ovens. Fresh rushes were strewn across the floor, and they rustled as though disturbed by hurried feet. _

_ “Shit,” Alistair said, realising that he would not be able to rely on familiarity to navigate this interpretation of Redcliffe Castle. “I don’t know how to get to the tower where she is. Nothing’s where it should be.” _

_ He felt like a halla caught in a trap: legs broken by a vice while a wolf advanced in casual lethality. The predator became a twisted mockery of Duncan, moving with sadistic purpose towards the oblivious, daydreaming Flora. _

_ Flora’s general inclined its head, wizened skin loaned a sickly hue from the hearth. _

_ “You must climb.” _

_ Alistair, setting out across the chamber, did not think that this was particularly helpful advice. He ducked to avoid a hanging rack of meat, pushing aside several rabbit carcasses and the flayed skin of a man. The odour emanating from the bread oven was not bread: it smelt like roasted pork. _

_ Passing the oven, he entered a corridor lined with shelves: each shelf piled high with platters, bowls and tankards. They gleamed as though newly polished, although none of the reflected faces he glimpsed belonged to him. In the distance, he could hear a voice bellowing out a list of dishes: the words distorted by a subterranean echo. _

_ “Eye of the round roast, asparagus soup, sautéed fiddlehead, brandy-soaked pears! Where’s that blasted boy? The fire’s gone out!” _

_ Alistair never caught the spirit that accompanied him in motion. Instead, Flora’s general seemed to move in a series of static images: like a child’s parchment flipping-book thumbed more slowly. It made for disconcerting company; more so since the scowl reminded him unpleasantly of Mac Tir. _

_ He continued down the passage as the cook’s voice faded into the distance: the reflected eyes swivelled in his wake. If the kitchens followed the layout of its real-world counterpart, the next doorway should have opened up into the castle buttery. To Alistair’s surprise, the door indeed revealed a circular chamber that he recognised. The buttery was lined with ceramic tile to keep it cool, and a vast wooden butter churn was kept lidded in its centre. The various ladles and churning sticks lined the walls on their respective pegs. _

_ Astonished that at least one part of this Fade conjuration seemed to align with reality, Alistair proceeded cautiously around the butter churn. As he passed by, an irritable voice echoed from beneath its wooden lid. _

_ “Leave me ALONE!” _

_ This was followed by a shriek more animal than human. Recoiling in shock, Alistair collided with the wall and sent several ladles clattering to the tiles. He swore and began to bend to retrieve them - then cursed himself again for wasting time. Setting his eyes on the far door - which would normally lead to Redcliffe’s brewery - he left the buttery with haste. _

_ The door led instead into the keep’s great hall; the ceiling rafters exposed like the hull of a ship. The tables were laid out in their ordered array, the benches aligned with mathematical precision. The fireplaces that flanked the vast space blazed with green flame, as had the hearth in the kitchen. The hall appeared to be deserted; the only sound each echoed footstep. _

_ Alistair advanced with caution, wondering if some even more malevolent incarnation of Connor Guerrin lurked at the far end. At his side, Flora’s general flickered in and out of existence like the last smouldering moments of an oil lamp. It’s feet, despite being encased in ornately carved steel, made no sound against the flagstones. _

_ “Ah, wonderful. Tis’ my lucky day indeed.” _

_ The sly and familiar voice curled from the furthest reaches of the hall. Alistair stopped in his tracks and then stifled a groan, wondering whether it would be preferable to encounter an abominable child. Morrigan rose fluidly from the step upon which she had been perched, her eyes made glittering olive by the green hearthlight. From what Alistair could recall of the witch, this version seemed entirely true to life; down to the wreath of delicate animal bones that decorated her neck and wrists. _

_“I hoped that the old woman would free herself first,” Morrigan continued airily, seemingly unbothered by the strangeness of the situation. “Despite being_ _even more venerable in years than my blasted mother, she proved her skill well-enough earlier. If we are to face a demon, I would wish her at my side.” _

_ The longer that she spoke, the more obvious it became that the apparent ease was a cloak donned to guard herself. Although Morrigan was naturally familiar with the Fade, this Veiled corner lay beyond her control. She too had been plunged into a distorted dream, although it had not managed to fully sink its claws into her. _

_ Morrigan’s gaze passed over Alistair - as far as she was concerned, the young warrior was even less useful here than he was in the waking world - and settled on the spirit at his side. Her mouth opened in involuntary astonishment; a rare lapse of composure. _

_ “Have you seen Flora?” Alistair demanded, closing the gap between them. “Maker’s Breath, say that you’ve seen her.” _

_ Morrigan shook her head, not taking her eyes from the armoured apparition. Age blurred like watercolour paint on its ascetic features: the beaked nose and thin lips the only constant around a shifting landscape of wrinkled and then unblemished skin. Liver spots faded and reformed; sagging jowls tautened; the blurred eyesight took on renewed clarity. The constant drift between thirty and sixty was disorientating to watch. _

_ “I have not. I awoke in this wretched construction to find some pathetic imitation of my mother hovering above me. Pah!” The witch made a disgusted face. “I saw through its ruse in an instant. My mother would never have spoken with such tenderness. I incinerated the wizened crone where she stood.” _

_ Alistair felt the clench of panic in his gut once again; like a great fist had taken his stomach and squeezed. Morrigan saw the raw fright on his face and her yellow eyes narrowed. _

_ “I take it you’ve lost your ‘sister-warden’. Have you not come across her yet in this mockery of my Wilds?” _

_ She waved a dark-nailed hand as though the array of tables and chairs had reverted to their original state: tangled trunks of wood amidst a southern forest. Whatever iteration of the Fade Morrigan existed in, it did not resemble the construct of Redcliffe Castle in Alistair’s mind. _

_ “No,” Alistair said in response, the word sour with nausea. “Shit. Help me find her.” _

_ Surprisingly Morrigan did not snap out a scathing retort, though it had emerged as an instruction rather than a request. Instead, she inclined her head and rose with a whisper of tiny animal bones; the linked cartilage around her wrists rustling. _

_ The three of them - mage, warrior and spirit - crossed the breadth of the great hall. The door seemed to slide further away with each step they took towards it. A twitch of movement caught Alistair’s eye as they passed: he glanced to the side to see a small boy crouched beside a hearth. A moment longer and it became clear that the boy was constructed from jointed wood rather than flesh and bone, like a dressmaker’s mannequin. The Fade’s imitation of Connor was playing with a family of small wax figures, inching them across the flagstones in a mimicry of life. Suddenly, in a fit of temper, the boy threw the father into the fire. _

_ Alistair realised that he very much did not want to draw the small apparition’s attention. Fortunately, Morrigan seemed to feel the same way. Neither of them spoke until they had finally reached the elusive door and passed over its stone threshold. Instead of a corridor that Alistair knew well - as a child he had carried trays of teetering goblets between its stark stone walls - they emerged at the base of a spiralling stair. A tower of unknown height extended above them, the gloom punctuated by precise angles of daylight. _

_ Alistair took the briefest of moments to gather himself before continuing. On a primal level, the world beyond the Veil felt strangely familiar. Although only mages retained autonomy in the Fade, everyone else - save for the dreamless dwarves - slid unconscious into its unknowable depths during slumber. He clung to this faint kernel of precognition, aware how vital it was that he kept a sound mind. _

_ “I take it we’re climbing this hill?” Morrigan asked, her words drawn up into the lantern-lit eaves as though inhaled. _

_ Alistair did not know how to respond - it was a set of circular stone steps that lay before them - and so gave a voiceless grunt. He took the lead, wishing that he had the cool, comforting press of a weapon against his thigh. _

_ The spirit did not walk up the spiralling stair with them. It appeared three steps ahead, and when he looked behind it was also a half-turn below. Alistair never saw it vanish or reappear: it seemed to exist in both places at once. _

_ And yet in neither, he thought, recalling what it had said. _

_ The shafts of daylight that lit every sixth stair were tinted a greenish hue, as though the tower was submerged beneath the water. Alistair glanced through one narrow window as he passed by, and stopped in abrupt astonishment. Instead of the castle courtyard, a vast and endless floodplain extended to an indistinct horizon. Three vast waterfalls fed into a foaming caldera. Even at a distance the roar of untamed water was audible. He had heard stories of similar places in the Anderfels, where countless miles of land stretched wild and bare. _

_ “Maker’s Breath,” he said, staring. “What’s that?” _

_ Morrigan, who had almost collided with him, scowled and gave an unhelpful shrug. It was unclear whether she still believed that they were climbing a hill in the Wilds. _

_ “Ferelden,” replied the general, swift and irritable. “The place named for the first.” _

_ “The first -what? the first king?” Alistair’s guess was met with a terse nod. “But - that looks nothing like Lake Calenhad.” _

_ “The lake is not yet made.” _

_ Alistair stared through the window a moment longer, and then continued upwards with his jaw clenched and teeth gritted. He wanted nothing more than to retrieve his sister-warden and awaken from this horrendous dream. _

_ The stairwell seemed to shift direction as he climbed; the steps doubling back on themselves in some impossible feet of engineering. Still, Alistair pressed on, convinced that they were still climbing. Morrigan made no sound as she followed him, her tread light as a cat’s against the stone. He found himself wishing that she would make one of her customary barbed comments - a shred of normalcy - but the witch seemed to be equally as disconcerted. _

_ “Can’t you make the little fool see sense?” she asked, the question directed at Flora’s general. “I was able to foil this demon’s conjured trick in a heartbeat.” _

_ “She is naive,” the spirit replied from a half-turn of the stair above. “And not used to such deception. In the Fade - in usual times - she was always protected.” _

_ The architecture of the general’s speech was archaic; the dialect of the words many centuries old. It cast no silhouette on the curving wall as it waited on the upper stair. The laurel wreath carved on its breastplate was exquisite crafted: the leaves veined so finely that they could have been organic. _

_ The thought entered Alistair’s head unprompted as he climbed: that’s a Highever banner. _

_ “It is not,” came the general’s acerbic reply, drifting past the stair’s central spine. _

_ Alistair supposed that this was what Flora lived with constantly, and understood her bemusement at any notion of privacy. _

_ “It is the sigil of the great Cousland dynasty,” continued the old statesman, grandiose and stern. “Did you never study your nation’s heraldry, son of Maric?” _

_ Alistair ground his teeth. “No. Too busy mucking out the stables, I suppose.” _

_ He recognised it now: the symbol of the family that governed Ferelden’s unruly and ragged-toothed north. The Couslands were descended from one of the Six: the half-dozen original Alamarri tribes from before years were numbered. _

_ The young Warden and the witch continued to ascend the tower. The steps were not hewn at regular heights and the result was a disjointed, dizzying climb. As the next window approached, a breathless Alistair eyed it with trepidation. The light spilling through the glassless space was tinted an orange hue. When he looked out, he saw the city of Denerim spread before him: carved into pieces by the canals that fed from the Amaranthine estuary. The Royal Palace and noble district formed a serrated silhouette on the city’s northern slopes. All was ablaze; untended fire had devoured each of the seven districts. A ceiling of black smoke obscured any natural light. _

_ The vision was so convincing that Alistair felt heat from the fire lick against his face. He recoiled from the window, and then deliberately averted his gaze: questions only led to further delay. _

_ In Morrigan’s view, they were not climbing a tower but a strange and rugged hillock in the midst of the Wilds. There was no window for her to glance through but she followed the angle of Alistair’s bewildered stare nonetheless. Her eyebrow quirked and her lips pursed, but what the witch saw, she kept to herself. _

_ The next turn of the stair brought a window that showed Loghain Mac Tir removing his armour in the centre of a shadowed tent, his face sour with a blend of emotions. Determination was scoured across his brow; while weariness sunk the sallow cheeks inwards. When he turned towards the lantern, a flicker of regret caught the light. _

_ Alistair felt a storm surge of rage roll upwards from his gut, potent enough to unsteady him. He took a blind half-step towards the window, fingers groping for a hilt that was not there. _

_ “Whatever you are seeing, ‘tis a falsehood. Remember your goal.” _

_ Morrigan’s warning emerged sharp and brittle, yet it was enough to rein in the young man’s anger. _

_ Find Flora. _

_ Alistair turned away from the window and set his face to the next curve in the stair, only to tense at the unmistakable sound of combat. He had no shield and no weapon but he threw himself up the steps like a hound sighting it’s prey; crashing his shoulder against the wall in his haste to round the stair. _

_ The light changed to accommodate a different space as a landing led through to a small guard-chamber: the sort that sat directly above a gateway so that visitors could be monitored. It made no sense for such a room to be located halfway up a looming tower, but there was nothing that made sense in the Fade. The world beyond the Veil operated by its own rules, malleable as liquid glass. _

_ Arrow-slit windows painted stripes of light on the tiles. Leaning against the wall on the far side of the chamber was the senior instructor who had guided them up through the Circle - Wynne. She was breathing hard, staff still smouldering. The knot of grey hair atop her head was fraying. The charred remains of something unrecognisable lay at her feet. _

_ The light in the chamber changed again; a dark seam opening in its centre. Wynne looked up and readied her staff once more. Her face contorted in shock as she saw Alistair in the doorway, mouth opening to call a warning. _

_ “Watch- !” _

_ There came a hiss of static discharge. Faster than any mortal reflex could counter, the seam released a point of violet light that extended towards Alistair like an elongated dart. Before he could blink, the energy dissipated in a ripple before his face: the chamber diluted by golden light. _

_ The young man felt joy course through his veins: that was Flora’s shield! Then he noticed the subtle differences: although it claimed the same winter-sun hue and cobweb-thinness, this iteration of the barrier was made from a single, metallic sheath. It was more akin to a physical shield than Flora’s fishing net, made up of organic, fibrous vessels. _

_ Flora’s general appeared in the chamber before Alistair; in a way that made it seem as though it had always been there. Once again youthful, it shot a contemptuous glare at the clawed arm now extracting itself from the seam of energy. The seam tore apart like vellum; the demon’s limb lay severed on the tiles. Alistair noticed that the general’s gauntlet now gleamed gold. _

_ “Forgive us for trespassing in your domain.” _

_ Wynne was not speaking to him, or Morrigan. The senior instructor had her face angled towards the spirit, but her eyes were cast downwards in careful deference. This old mage was accustomed to venturing through the alien realms of the Fade, and she had learnt to treat the inhabitants with respect. _

_ “We press on.” _

_ The general’s retort was blunt; the air surrounding it distorted with a constant flux of energy. Alistair, before he turned back towards the spiral stair, caught a glimpse of the senior enchanter’s face. The woman was staring at the armour-clad spirit with a mixture of shock and wary fascination. _

_ Alistair continued on: up the spiralling stair that seemed as though it would never end. He heard Morrigan’s cat-tread on the stone behind him, and then the footsteps of the senior enchanter. The three of them made their way towards the tower’s apex; not speaking and eyes set unblinking on their destination. Every sixth step, the limestone wall opened up in a window: Alistair studiously ignored their false visions. _

_ “We must surely reach the top soon!” _

_ This frustrated entreaty came from Morrigan. Strands of black hair were plastered to her sweaty forehead like streaks of ink. This was not the Wilds that the witch knew; it was a foul and debased interpretation. _

_ “You are there,” replied Flora’s general, from a place unseen. _

_ Then the light changed again and Alistair felt a cold dampness adhere to his face. He took the last few steps at a run, emerging breathless at the top of the staircase. _

_ What should have been the flat roof of Redcliffe’s tallest tower was instead a courtyard constructed from decaying stone; lined with the toothed remnants of columns and overgrown by moss. The banner of the silver griffon writhed against a crumbling wall, teased by the wind that stalked Ostagar in perpetuity. _

_ In the centre of the courtyard stood a tent that Alistair knew well. Despite his rank, Duncan had never used any larger or grander accommodation. It was hexagonal in shape and stained from many seasons of use; the pole to the right of the entrance was slightly bent. It was engulfed almost entirely by olive-green flame. _

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so this is my interpretation of the Fade this time round - last time, I didn’t even bother and basically did Flora waking up and going to kill a demon. I definitely could not be arsed to try to write up the Fade the way that it’s done in the game - all those weird islands, turning into different things. Lol! I fucking hated that level!
> 
> So this is my way of incorporating a bit more weirdness (or trying to). I also wanted to feature Flora’s general spirit instead of the mouse thing. 
> 
> God I can’t wait to not be writing in italics!!!!! It’s so annoying to write in (and read, I’m sure)
> 
> Thank you for reading!! I swear, I always think of lots of interesting things I want to include in these notes when I’m writing the chapter, and then when it comes to actually writing the notes my brain is like asgshshdgahshdddgh


	74. Return To The Waking World

_ The manifestation of Duncan’s tent was consumed entirely by fire: the flames were olive green, and black at the centre. Only the frame of the tent was left intact, the poles warped like the bones of some ancient beast. It was no ordinary fire, but demon-breath: it gave off no smoke, but smelt like the cremation of something rotten. The construction of Ostagar around the tent was lazy and incomplete, the pillars were fixed at impossible angles and nothing was where it ought to be. A set of steps ended in an unimagined void, and the other Grey Warden tents were smudges against the stone. _

_ Without waiting for Morrigan and the Circle instructor to emerge from the tower, Alistair hurled himself across the courtyard. He had neither weapon nor shield; he was clad only in the thin linen customarily worn beneath chainmail. Each step seemed to take him further away from his destination.  _

_ “Flora!”  _

_ The word was snatched from his mouth by the relentless Southron wind; the name of his sister-warden flung back and forth between the broken knuckles of the pillars.  _

_ Flora!  _

_ Flora!  _

_ Flora? _

_ Then Alistair saw her: sitting on the flagstones with her back against a fragmenting wall. She was imprisoned by choice within a dome of barely-visible light. Her shoulders were hunched to her ears and her face was angled down: staring at the muddy tile between her knees. A figure was attacking her shield with feral viciousness; claw hammer in one hand and dagger in the other. The assault was continuous and the foe apparently tireless: a thunderous cascade of blows rained down on the diaphanous barrier. Despite Flora’s inattention, the shield yielded not a hair’s breadth to the brutal attack.  _

_ “Flora!” Alistair bellowed, a rogue wave of relief crashing over him.  _

_ Flora startled and looked towards him, as did her assailant; the head snapping around with an audible crack.  _

_ Alistair felt the blood drain from his face. A clammy sense of dread settled over him like a shroud. At first glance, the creature resembled a Darkspawn: the skin was a mottled grey and spidered with dark veins, the eyes hollow pits and the mouth a maw. Then he saw the fleshy wounds that covered the limbs and abdomen, each one shaped in a ragged half-moon. Exposed bone glinted white at the creature’s joints; and half of the neck was missing. Entrails hung loose like a bloody banner. No weapon could have caused such ragged wounds: the mutilation had been inflicted by teeth. Most horrifying of all was the gold loop that ran through the creature’s remaining ear.  _

_ Alistair found that he could do nothing but stand and stare; his legs no longer felt like his own. The half-eaten Warden-Commander took a limping step in his direction, struggling on the mangled stumps of feet. What remained of the face was contorted in malevolence. _

_ As the demonic apparition turned its attention to her brother-warden, Flora forced herself to her feet. She was not injured, but there was a maelstrom of shame and nausea churning in her belly. The world tilted as she rose and for a moment she thought that she was going to be sick. Once she had realised that Duncan, his tent and their victory over the Darkspawn was nothing but demonic trickery; the fog obscuring her memory had blown clear, recent events growing sharper like sails through the mist.  _

_ The Circle fallen to maleficar. _

_ The senior instructor who joined us on the apprentice floor.  _

_ The Templar seduced by visions.  _

_ The Templar losing his mind in the cage. _

_ The sloth demon, sat like a great toad on the landing.  _

_ The half-eaten mockery of Duncan continued to lurch towards Alistair, a trail of bloodied footprints left in its wake.  _

_ Alistair, white with shock, made a valiant stand regardless. He reached reflexively for his sword and withdrew the broom he had used to sweep the hay from the stable floor. Despite this, he bellowed a taunt to the lurching creature; bashing a fist against the centre of his chest in physical challenge.  _

_ “Get over here!”  _

_ The second, unsaid part: ‘away from her.’ _

_ In the background, Flora anchored her fingers in the gravel . The illusion of Ostagar was peeling like flaking paint: grey stone chipped away to reveal the lurid green of the raw Fade. Her shield dissolved and reformed itself around Alistair in a seamless curve of gold, hammered to translucent thinness. The Duncan creature lashed out with both rusted blades; the assault made naught but a terrible sound. _

_ “Shit,” Alistair said, staring aghast at the ravaged face, shreds of skin clinging to fractured bone. “Maker’s Breath.”  _

_ He heard the crackle of the arcane behind him - one of the mages was about to return the assault - and then there came a strange and eerie whistle. The Duncan monstrosity went absolutely still and then blinked out of existence; an empty silhouette of green flashing momentarily in its wake. It had been simply cut from existence: swift and exact as though performed with surgical scalpel.  _

_ Alistair glanced over his shoulder. Morrigan looked confused - in any other circumstance he would have relished her bewilderment - and Wynne gave a simple shake of the head: it was not me.  _

_ The ethereal general set out across the courtyard with a purposeful gait, passing through the empty air where the demon had disappeared without hesitation. It made no effort to explain how it had ended the creature with such completeness that not even a shadow of its existence was left. Only the briefest traces of Ostagar remained standing around them now: - a lone pillar rising from the rubble, a short flight of steps that led nowhere. Overhead, the ever-distant Black City hung within an olive green void; a smudge of darkness against the sky.  _

_ Flora felt her stomach sink as her general approached. She predicted that she was about to be on the receiving end of a long and disapproving lecture. In an attempt to delay, she swung guilty eyes towards a much more welcome sight: her brother-warden. Alistair had overcome his shock at seeing Duncan’s reanimated carcass and was also headed towards her, his face brittle with dread.  _

_ Flora clambered to her feet, relief stealing her balance. A hand reached towards him, the fingers extending to grasp his.  _

_ “Alist- ” she began, and then vanished with the rapidity of a candle extinguished.  _

_ Alistair came to an abrupt halt before the empty space where his sister-warden had been. Nothing remained except the rough-hewn olive rocks of the raw Fade: reminiscent of the more desolate parts of the mountainous Anderfels. _

_ The young man let out a fluid string of curses: anger and despair fuelling the tirade. Flora had been close enough to touch and then, once again, she had been cruelly snatched away.  _

_ “Did they teach you that sort of language at the monastery?” enquired Morrigan; though the words were scored with a nervous undercurrent. This was not the Fade that the witch had known nightly since childhood; this was a strange and alien landscape that paid no heed to her demands.  _

_ “Where is she?!” Alistair demanded of Flora’s general, abandoning all deference to the elder spirit. “Where’s she gone now?” _

_ The spirit turned its age-changing face towards him; wrinkles flattening to youthful smoothness.  _

_ “I woke her,” it replied: eyes a maelstrom of indescribable colour.  _

_ Alistair hesitated; unsure what this meant in such an unfamiliar context.  _

_ “You sent her back to the Circle?”  _

_ The clarification came from Wynne, the grey-haired instructor who had joined them on the apprentice floor.  _

_ The general inclined its head a fraction.  _

_ “The mage Irving wavers on the precipice between life and death. She must keep him tethered to mortality until your return.”  _

_ Beneath them, barely noticeable at first, the ground had begun to shake. The air shimmered and twisted like an iridescent ribbon: a breeze turned in an impossible circle.  _

_ “What do you need us to do?” _

_ The question, once again, came from Wynne. The senior mage had guessed that the spirit required their presence in some additional way: that they had been kept in the Fade for another purpose.  _

_ “Disperse Sloth,” replied the general, hair now visibly greying at the temples. “‘Kill’, in your tongue. It has some measure of strength, but we shall protect you.”  _

_ No further explanation was provided. Alistair remembered what his sister-warden had once said: my shield comes from my spirits. _

_ Morrigan let out a growl: her cat-eyes turned the lurid green of grass by the verdant skies. The witch was bristling like a cat in an unknown territory, fingers skittering on her staff.  _

_ “And why can you not destroy this demon like you did the illusion?” she demanded, a fearful edge to the indignancy. “I know you have power. I… I can feel it. You could end such an enemy in a moment..” _

_ The general turned its strange, opaque eyes on her. _

_ “The minds of humans are as cobwebs in the Fade: fragile and easily torn. If you value your sanity, you would reconsider your suggestion.”  _

_ Morrigan, belligerent: “Cobwebs are strong.” _

_ The spirit’s lip curled in a sneer; it’s stare unblinking.  _

_ “To a spider.”  _

_ The senior enchanter, seeing Alistair lost for words and Morrigan bridling, stepped in.  _

_ “We are honoured to be of assistance,” she said, speaking with a wary deference. “If we slay the Sloth demon, will you allow us to awaken?”  _

_ Wynne’s caution was borne from decades of treading carefully around spirits: aware of their capriciousness and capacity for destruction. In her view, the fact that this spirit bore the guise of Valour did not mean that it’s intentions were necessarily honourable.  _

_ The laurel on the general’s breastplate budded and blossomed in the underwater light of the Fade. It gave a terse nod of confirmation, sightless eyes turning towards Wynne.  _

_ “Yes. You must continue.”  _

_ Alistair’s patience was unravelling like the fraying hem of his sister-warden’s tunic. The more time he spent in the Fade, the less he understood it. He could not believe that this landscape of bleak and barbed rock was responsible for producing all that he had ever dreamed.  _

_ The inhabitants of the Fade were equally unfathomable. Flora’s general was a figure that seemed to exist apart from time. It shifted in and out of being; youthful and then aged; ignoring half of their questions and producing only vague part-answers to the rest. What was certain was that it seemed to have an agenda of its own.  _

_Yet to ruminate further over the spirit’s motives was pointless. Alistair now wanted only one thing: to return to the waking world, where even a maleficar-infested Circle was preferable to the unchartable labyrinth of the Fade. His initial disorientation had boiled down to a singl_e, _sharp_ _point of anger. _

_ “Then take us to Sloth,” he said softly, and with purpose. “We end this now.”   
  
_

* * *

Sight was the last sense to return. Flora felt the coarseness of well-trodden fabric against her cheek; and heard the writhe of flame within a nearby brazier. The acrid odour of the arcane hung in the air like the lingering scent of rain. She drew in a grounding breath, filling her lungs as though preparing to submerge herself. She then opened one tentative eye.

The circular landing appeared to be empty. It had an anticipatory stillness, as though waiting with baited breath for something to happen. A lone chair lay toppled and a tapestry had been torn from the wall. The tiles were marred by a dark stain that seemed more shadow than liquid; like the silhouette of something that could not be seen. On the far side of the landing, a short flight of steps led up to an unadorned set of double doors, a deceptively innocuous entrance to the Harrowing chamber. 

There was no physical sign of the Sloth demon that had presided over the landing like a squat and bloated toad. The only tangible remnants of its presence was the foulness seeping into the stone. 

Flora exhaled slowly, opening her second eye. The scope of her sight widened, revealing a mountain range of flesh and steel an arm’s reach away. She recognised the impressive topography immediately; having only ever met one man with such length of limb and breadth of shoulder. The handsome face was at ease, a hand flung loose to the side: Alistair could have been deep in peaceful sleep. Several yards away, Morrigan and the senior instructor lay in similar condition.

Flora used her elbows to squirm herself across the tiles towards her brother-warden. To her breathless relief, Alistair seemed undamaged. Ironically, the richness of his complexion implied good health far more than her own blanched cheeks. Despite his intact state, he did not respond to her tentative - and then more vigorous - shaking of the shoulder. 

_ He’s in the Fade? _

** _Yes. _ **

_ He’s with you?  _

A flicker of annoyance:  ** _We have not lost him. _ **

_ Can’t I come back? I want to help.  _

** _You spent your time here beguiled by an illusion. You contributed nothing. _ **

Flora flinched. In hindsight, she could see the flaws in the conjured scene: the stripes on the Grey Warden’s tunic had run to the side instead of lengthways, the bedding had been a different shade and fabric. Duncan’s earring had hung from the wrong ear. The demon’s trick now seemed obvious: she felt a hot, liquid embarrassment churn in her belly. 

** _Ruminate over your foolishness later, _ ** came the irate instruction.  ** _The old man needs assistance. _ **

Swallowing a lump of shame, Flora returned her attention to the motionless length of her brother-warden. Alistair was laid out near the base of a pillar, sprawled between the dark stain and where she had come to her senses. Flora realised that he had put himself between her and Sloth in a vain attempt to use his brawn as a shield. 

Her heart felt as though fingers had reached around it and squeezed. She slid her hand gently over the crown of his head, flattening the tousled gold against her palm. Alistair made no sign that he felt her touch; his eyes were shut and mouth half-open. Flora leaned forward and put her ear beside his face, listening to the rhythm of his breath. Reassured by its steadiness she let her cheek rest against his for a long moment. Beneath the fresh growth of stubble, she could feel the hard bone of his jaw: angled so precisely that it could have been chiselled. She hoped that he might somehow feel the press of her cheek through the Veil. 

** _He can’t, _ ** retorted her general, snidely.  ** _Mawkish sentiment._ **

Flora returned upright, miserable. It did not seem right that  _ Alistair _ was in the Fade and  _ she _ in the waking world. Yet again, she berated herself for being so easily deceived by Sloth’s illusion: but she had always been a little foolish in Duncan’s presence. Her gaze wandered from Alistair, to the two prone mages nearby, and then back to her brother-warden.

_ I need to protect them. In case something comes.  _

Flora wished that she had not forgotten to bring her staff. The hairs on the backs of her arms were lifting: there was magic nearby.

** _You didn’t “forget”, _ ** retorted her general, acerbic as ever.  ** _You wilfully neglected to bring it. _ **

_ Well, I didn’t think I’d need it. I didn't know that a demon had taken this place over.  _

_ They’d never let a demon take over in Herring. _

** _Nobody would want to take over Herring._ **

If there was ever a place to find a stray staff lying around, it would be the Circle. Unfortunately, the antechamber was void of everything except bare columns, sparse furniture and stern-eyed paintings. This was possibly a deliberate choice: not all mages went to their Harrowing peacefully. 

Flora felt her general sigh; the lines framing his colourless eyes creasing.

** _Find something organic._ **

When she hesitated, it clarified:  ** _Wooden._ **

There was a broomstick propped against a pillar, abandoned by a Tranquil whom she hoped had found safety elsewhere. Flora scuttled across the chamber, her footsteps deafening in the silence. Retrieving the broomstick she returned to her unconscious companions, aware of the leaden thud of her heart. Her palm left a sweaty mark on the broom’s handle. 

_ I’m scared,  _ she realised, glumly.  _ I don’t want to go into that room by myself. _

Filaments of energy began to drift from beneath her fingernails like skeins of golden hair. The ever-present effervescence of magic danced through her veins: Compassion’s gentle reminder that she was  _ never  _ alone. 

Flora took a deep breath and unclasped her fingers. The broomstick flung itself into the air and snapped into place, quivering; as though tugged by magnetic force. Within the span of an eyeblink it had sprouted a web of tender vessels, the filaments twining into a familiar woven pattern. Flora’s barrier billowed outwards like a net drawn through the water, her slumbering companions encased within. A pale wash of light fell over Alistair’s peaceful face: it gilded him like a Tevinter statue. 

** _Go to the old man before the last of his vitality is drained. _ **

Flora hesitated a moment more, eyes lingering on her brother-warden’s face. She then clambered to her feet and turned her attention to the door on the far side of the antechamber. The air hung in an expectant hush, the soft rustling sounds of her movements amplified. The door led to the Harrowing chamber: she had been there only once before. 

The strange stillness made the hair on the back of her forearms rise. As she remembered, Kinloch Hold had never been silent: it housed several hundred mages and an equal number of Templars, plus an uncounted amount of mice. Each curved passageway rang with the echo of at least one set of footsteps at all times, the threads of simultaneous conversation wove together in a tapestry of murmured dialogue. Each stairway was in perpetual use; and every chamber had its discreet Tranquil in the background, broom or tray in hand. The Tower thrived on perpetual motion like an Orlesian clock. 

_ Or it had done, once.  _

It was not the time for reminiscing: Flora gave herself a mental prod in the ribs. 

_ If it’s chaotic behind that door,  _ she thought to herself grimly, eyeing on the short flight of steps.  _ You’ll be wishing you had the stillness back. And blood mages. What’s behind the door? _

As expected, there came no reply. Flora drew in an anchoring breath, feeling the press of lung against rib. She stole another glance over her shoulder towards her brother-warden and the two women: hesitating in the hope that at least one of them would stir. 

** _Your companions are preoccupied, _ ** came the irritated reply.  ** _Go! There is another demon to be dealt with. _ **

This comment only worsened Flora’s mood. She had been expecting nothing from the Circle except a signature and a promise of aid, perhaps breakfast too. Instead it had supplied them with demons and maleficar: the usual order splintered into bloody chaos. 

She ventured to the short flight of steps, slow as though she were wading through a reversing tide. Her body, reluctant to put itself in further danger, was fighting the instruction of her mind. The sound of her boots against the tiles was amplified by the curvature of the surrounding wall. 

A pair of sconces flanked the entrance to the Harrowing chamber. The last time that Flora had seen them - immediately before her own Harrowing - they had writhed with conjured, iridescent flame. Now the torches were dull and lifeless, the top of the stairway shadowed. The door itself seemed innocuous enough: Flora pressed her ear to it and heard nothing except her own fretful breath. There was no keyhole or split in the wood where she could put her eye. The stillness and the silence made her nauseous: the air had a dull, cemetery taste, like ashes in her mouth.

_ The Templar said: the Tower is a tomb.  _

For a wild moment Flora wondered if she could manufacture a delay: at least until one of her companions awoke to join her. She very much did not want to enter the Harrowing chamber alone.

** _No more lingering, _ ** snapped her general, losing it’s patience.  ** _Now. _ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank fuck we’re out of the Fade and I don’t have to write in horrible italics anymore. Poor Flora has got a lot of redeeming herself to do: she’s not exactly performed well so far. I thought this was a more realistic depiction of how her experience in the Fade could go. I also wanted to incorporate more interaction with Flora’s general as opposed to the mouse thing, I do like Niall but I couldn’t miss an opportunity to build up one of my characters! 
> 
> I also wanted to convey Flora’s fears more in this rewrite - in the original, she’s reckless and bold because she has a shield; in this version, she’s much more hesitant (I don’t like to use the word cowardly in any context, I think fear is a totally rational and justified response to individual circumstance), because she has such little experience with her shield, she’s not confident in it.
> 
> Can’t wait to reunite Alistair and Flora again though, they’ve been apart for toooooo long!


	75. Uldred

Flora inhaled an anchoring breath, put her palm to the wood and gave a tentative shove. The door shifted a quarter-inch in its frame but yielded no further: by lock or by spell, it was sealed fast. There were no discernible key holes within the door itself, nor any bolt or bar. Flora took a step back and stared at it. Her breakfast was curdling in her stomach: the bitter aftertaste of fear beneath her tongue. She did not want to confront whatever lay in the Harrowing Chamber alone. 

** _Look for the light. _ **

Obediently, Flora swept her gaze the length of the door: from base to arching lintel. A glint near the tiles caught her eye and she squatted to inspect it more closely. There was a gap between the doors where the wood had warped, no wider than a finger. A skeletal finger of light beckoned through the crack. The light was suffused with a ghastly pallor, like the face of a dying man. 

** _Can you remember what to do?_ **

Flora, reluctantly, could. Still squatting on her heels, she reached out a hand, one bitten-nailed forefinger extended. The distortion in the wood was just wide enough to accommodate the tip of her finger. She took another deep breath - it felt as though she could not fill her lungs - and let her magic surge from beneath the nail. Two sails of aureate light billowed outwards from her finger: the rapidly expanding barrier splintered the wood more effectively than Qunari gatlock powder. The doorway to the Harrowing Chamber disintegrated in fragments: each door hewn in pieces as though struck by an axe. The violence of the door’s breaking frightened her; the noise shattered the silence like a broken window at night. She recoiled and almost lost her balance, the heel of her boot dropping over the edge of the stair. 

_ “Another guest to join the festivities! How fortunate we are, truly!” _

The voice called her inside, genial and welcoming, laced with madness. Flora felt a deep gloom settle over her.

_ At least Darkspawn don’t talk nonsense before they kill you. _

** _Go on. _ **

Flora inhaled again; the air within her lungs igniting into the luminescent aether of her magic.

_ To the whale boats, to the whale boats. _

Her boots carried her into the Harrowing Chamber; the footsteps sounding far more confident than Flora herself felt. Then, at last, she allowed herself to look around and take in the scene before her. 

For a single bewildering moment, she believed herself back in the Fade. 

_ Am I still dreaming? _

** _You are awake. _ **

_ This… this is real? _

** _It is._ **

The Harrowing Chamber was unrecognisable. The octagonal walls contained within them a scene more suited to the nightmarish depths of the Fade. Several hulking creatures, part-man and part-monstrosity, loped mindlessly around the chamber. Their flesh was a mass of tumorous growths; their faces unrecognisable. Pulsating masses clung to the columns like some malevolent organic growth. Untethered magical energy circulated overhead, restless and volatile: the eaves seethed in an electrical storm. An overpowering odour of rotten blood washed over Flora like a foul tide: her stomach churned in horror. In the centre of the chaos stood a man with a demon’s shadow: his robes blooded and his back to her. His hands were aloft, fingers making strange shapes in the air. At his feet lay a shuddering and prostrate figure. Neither made any acknowledgement of the door’s shattering; the sound lost in the electrical discharge. 

Flora, mouth agape, decided to make a hasty retreat. Before she could reverse through the broken doorway, she felt an irritable thrust between her shoulder-blades; as though a formless palm had given her a shove. 

** _Onward!_ **

She stumbled forward, putting a hand to a column to stop herself from falling. The monstrous beings ignored her entrance, continuing their oblivious circuits around the chamber. One deformed creation shuffled past only an arm’s reach away. 

_ WHAT ARE THEY? _

** _Abominations._ **

Flora had heard the word before - it was part of the standard Templar lexicon - but she had never seen one, nor would she ever have envisioned them like this. The twisted features reminded her of things that lived in the deep parts of the sea and never saw daylight. 

_ Monsters! _

** _Just demons. Calm yourself. _ **

She could feel her jaw start to vibrate in her skull and made herself take another anchoring breath, slowing the frightened patter of her heart. The aether stirred within her again, reassuring.

_ What can I do, _ she thought, _ what do I do first. _

The figure lying in the centre of the chamber was twitching in a spasm that she had seen in her earlier days as a mender: when death had crossed the finish line first and stole victory. Flora swallowed bile and then turned her eyes reluctantly to the being that stood above it.

It turned to face her: a creation caught halfway between mage and monster. It had the outer form of a man, but the skin seethed with darkness beneath its surface: the eyes were hollows of colourless light and one arm had transformed entirely into the clawed appendage of a demon. When it spoke, the echo of each word had a guttural edge.

_ “I bid you welcome, mage. Have you come to join me willingly, or- ” _

As it spoke, it turned to face her, slow and triumphant. Then, the moment it set eyes on her, the jaw dropped and - for a heartbeat - the creature seemed more man than monster.

_ “The vase?!” _

Flora was astonished that her derogatory nickname was known amongst the upper echelons of the Circle. She was not entirely sure how to respond: with the deference due to a senior instructor, or the revulsion deserved by a maleficar?

“Hello, Mildred,” she said at last, vaguely. 

Her eyes followed the perimeter of the chamber. Everywhere she looked limp mages were slumped against the walls; some clad in the crimson robes of a senior instructor, others still in their nightwear. Flora recognised an elderly elf who used to frequently berate her in the corridor for getting underfoot. At some earlier point in the evening a woollen cap had been pulled down over his ears to prevent a chill. Now he lay bruised and battered against the tiles and she felt a lump rise in her throat. 

Meanwhile, the abomination that had once been Uldred was staring at her: and there was enough left of his human face to register confusion. 

_ “What are you doing here? Surely they are not desperate enough to send an incompetent child to stop me.” _

Flora noticed then that the senior mages were pinned against the wall by a black mesh of energy: it crawled over their skin like a spiderweb, and seemed to emanate from the centre of the chamber. Whatever magic it held, it immobilised them save for the blinking of their eyes. It was not immediately obvious which was Irving: some had their faces turned away; others were bloody beyond recognition. Some were hidden behind one of the half-dozen chairs strewn about the chamber: the only furniture it held, intended for the observers of Harrowing rituals. 

“Where’s the First Enchanter?” she asked, wandering towards the nearest toppled chair and returning it upright. 

_ “I have no use for this useless one,” _ replied the abomination, and it was not speaking to her. _ “What need have I for a girl with no capability? She is no better than Tranquil.” _

Flora remembered where she had seen this particular instructor before: he had taken a class that she had been removed from after a single lesson. It had been about the history of mage-Chantry relations, and she had spent the session inking made-up fish in the margin of her parchment. 

_ Beauty does not compensate in the slightest for the lack of a brain, _Uldred had hissed before elbowing her from the room. 

The class had been abruptly stopped once the Templars had learnt of its subject matter. 

“Your name is Uldred, not Mildred,” she said, wincing as the feet of the chair scraped across the tiles. “Isn’t it? 

_ “Innit,” _said the senior instructor who had become an abomination, mocking the commonness of her accent. “Ha!”

Flora eyeballed the creature in disapproval: she believed that senior instructors ought to be above such jibes. Still, she thought, Uldred _ had _ fallen to the lure of blood magic, so he had a general lack of good judgement. 

“Why is this,” she said, not concentrating on her words because she had just spotted Irving. 

The First Enchanter was spread against a column as though pinned there, tethered in place by the same dark energy. His breathing was laboured and his heartbeat dangerously irregular. Flora recognised the wavering rhythm that she had first felt as a tap on her wrist on the lower foyer. Her spirits had not misled her: he was a man with one foot through the Veil. Yet she did not dare make a move: the webbing of malevolent energy crawled over his skin, attached to the abomination by a dark and pulsing vein. An abomination kept guard nearby, one red and liquid eye rolling around in search of enemies. 

Uldred was incredulous: _ ‘why is this’?! _

_ “We should kill her now - what? - no, you are mistaken - she has no more power than a gnat.” _

The blood mage was now mid-argument with the demon that dwelt within. His head snapped back and forth, the jaw hanging loosely: the clawed arm writhed restless at his side. It reminded Flora of a bloated crustacean struggling to escape the confines of its shell. Having returned the adjacent chair to its upright position, she sidled unobtrusively across to the next. 

_ “Back to the old man - he is about to yield - aren’t you, ‘First Enchanter’? Yield to us! Your Circle is lost!” _

The words curved around a mocking smile; Uldred’s face swung like a pendulum towards Irving. There was a long pause, and then a noise of guttural defiance slid from the mage’s throat. Flora took the momentary diversion to return the next chair upright, sliding it towards the wall. Her knee sounded out a sudden protest as she moved: it had not taken well to the Circle’s many steps. She inhaled sharply, fingers clenching on the back of the chair.

_ “Girl!” _

Flora braced herself, almost summoning her shield in reflexive panic. Yet no assault followed the query, no ball of black flame or stream of electricity was launched in her direction. She dared to look round at the abomination; Uldred was staring at her with traces of human perplexion on the demonic visage. Less of his old face was visible now. 

_ “I am warned,” _ it said, and shook its head. _ “I am warned of you. Why? Why? This one was known for incompetence. Or… perhaps not? What do you mean?” _

The maleficar’s words were limned with frustration: the unravelling human mind unable to comprehend the demon’s warning. Flora, realising that her reprieve was limited, finished her lap around the chamber. She had avoided the patrolling abominations but the mindless creations of mass and energy had ignored her; blind to all except what their master showed them. The last chair was lying on its side a few yards away; she limped towards it. 

_ “If she has ability, then let us have her. She will make a fine pet. Let us - what are you doing?” _

Flora released the chair abruptly, heart seizing. Yet when she turned her face towards the maleficar, the high bone, cold eye and sulking mouth gave no hint of the alarm within. The finely hewn architecture of her features had not been crafted to reveal fear. 

“My knee hurts,” she replied, blandly. “There’s a lot of steps in this tower.” 

The maleficar’s oily eye rolled, taking in the circle of wooden chairs positioned between the centre of the chamber and its perimeter. The eroding brow furrowed in confusion.

“How many chairs do you need, girl?” Uldred snapped, once again the contemptuous senior instructor who had expelled her from his class. “You’ve only one hind.” 

Flora looked around, appraising. 

“Mm, I think I have enough now.” 

The demon within the maleficar must have shrieked a warning. The torn flesh of his face twisted and he lifted an arm; but Flora was faster. She felt the magic unspooling from her like a thread yanked from a fraying sleeve: her barrier surging from one wooden chair to the next. In the time between the two halves of a heartbeat, the perimeter of the room was severed from the abominations at its centre: shielded by gilded mesh.

** _Good, _ ** murmured her general, who never shied away from bestowing approval when it was earned. ** _A standing shield channeled between organic matter. _ **

The bloody veins that had been draining the mages of their vitality were amputated; the webbing melted away. Irving slithered to the ground in a greying and crumpled heap, no longer pinned against the column. Flora hoped that one of the senior instructors would leap up and begin blasting fireballs at the maleficar and wandering abominations. No one stirred: either too weak or barely conscious. 

“Helpful as a blunt hook,” she observed at last, when it became obvious that no aid would come from that quarter. “Eh.”

Uldred let out a malignant shriek of rage: the sound emergent as a demonic rasp. The last vestiges of his humanity were rapidly receding; one recognisable eye buried within a seething swarm of flesh. Both of his arms were clawed now: the leathered palms moulding a mass of energy. The magic was black and shot through with brownish red; it smelt like stale blood. 

Flora realised that the missile was intended for her. Her shield clung to her like a second skin; she hoped fervently that her perimeter barrier would not collapse. It held firm, extending from one chair to the next like an ethereal cordon. 

“I need these mages,” she said, raising her voice above the discharge of malevolent energy. “To help me save Herring.”

There was a flicker of irritation from her general.

“And also Ferelden,” Flora added hastily. “You can’t take any more of ‘em.” 

The missile seared the air like a thrown coal; though a thousand times hotter and far more toxic. It hit Flora’s shield and disintegrated into ashes, each fleck of falling grey leaving a bloody smear on the tile. Flora scowled through the filmy barrier, aware that she could offer nothing in retaliation. She had no offensive spells in her arsenal; indeed, she had no arsenal at all. 

“You’re a scabby beg from Skingle,” she said at last, resorting to verbal assault. 

The demon gave a guttural command and the abominations lurched around; their mindless eyes focusing on Flora. They were not fast - they moved at a lumber, their limbs too malformed for speed. One made a lunge for Flora, and it was all gaping mouth and rancid throat. It hurled itself against her barrier and fell back with a crash, stunned. 

Flora flinched, but her shield had held firm; and a memory from long-past Ishal rose to the surface of her mind.

_ Didn’t my shield once keep an ogre at bay? At the top of the tower of Ishal? _

** _It did. _ **

She gazed at the translucent strands of gold with new respect. Each fibre was as thin as a strand of hair; the net finer than the most delicate lace. Beyond, the maleficar had now become something otherworldly: a creature more suited to the darker recesses of the Fade than the physical world. The shadow of the Pride demon clung to it, so vast that only a fraction was visible within the confines of the Harrowing Chamber. It had ignited a maelstrom of black flame in the air before it: the voidfire blistering the tile beneath its feet. 

Flora turned her back on it. The tap-tap of Irving’s heartbeat had faltered against her wrist: she could accomplish more with the old man than she could with the enraged demon. Her shield felt like cool water flowing across her skin; it rippled when the torrent of flame hit it, but yielded not an inch. 

Irving was slumped on his back near the pillar where he had been pinned. His skin had the greyish pallor of a three-day corpse; his limbs leaden. Flora thought that he looked more like an sickly grandfather than the First Enchanter of Ferelden. 

The improvised barrier between the chairs proved no obstacle to its creator. She stepped through it and knelt beside Irving, ducking her head beside his. He did not look well - he appeared still in shock - and Flora felt sorry for him. She adjusted his lopsided collar, fastening the top button of his robe.

“HELP ME SAVE HERRING,” she then said loudly into the moaning and barely conscious old man’s face. The volume was necessary: Pride’s frustration and anger was deafening. 

Irving opened a pained eye and gaped at her, mouthing a voiceless warning. He jabbed a limp finger to somewhere beyond Flora’s shoulder. Another of the demon’s assaults hit the barrier and melted like hoarfrost at dawn; neutralised in a heartbeat. 

“And you need to come to Redcliffe,” Flora added, in sudden remembrance. “There’s a demon in the castle there, too - ” 

She broke off and eyed him beadily, hoping that the First Enchanter would prove more useful with the Guerrin boy’s abomination than he had done with those within his Circle. She supposed that Uldred had taken Irving by _ surprise _, and - 

** _The man is ailing, foolish chit! _ **

Duly chastised, Flora bent down and fixed her mouth to Irving’s; the aether stirring in her lungs. She exhaled and it blossomed into creation, surging up joyfully through her throat and into the fading mage. The first breath melted the cobwebs of exhaustion from his skull; the second purged the demon’s poison from his veins. Her fingers beat an even _ lub-dub _against the stained fabric of his robe; after a few moments the stuttering heart below copied the steady rhythm. 

“The Circle ain’t lost,” Flora informed the limp old mage as she returned upright, recalling Uldred’s taunt. “There are survivors. A lot of them.”

It was almost too much for the First Enchanter to comprehend: Uldred; Pride; the abominations grown from his former colleagues; the barrier and the breath of the girl renowned for her utter incapability. 

“And Instructor Wynne is with us,” Flora continued, scowling over her shoulder at the abomination hurling itself repeatedly against her shield. “She’ll be here soon.” 

_ With my brother-warden. Is he still with you? _

** _No longer. Look to the door. _ **

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh it’s nice to have Flora redeeming herself slightly in this chapter - since the last time we saw her, she was being seduced by not-Duncan! Not her finest moment, lol. But she’s back on form now, fortunately... I liked the idea of her using the chairs to channel her barrier, since in the last chapter it was revealed that she can use anything organic to do so. Don’t ask me what a ‘scabby beg from Skingle’ is supposed to be, lol. I like how Flora is very aware of her own limitations - she has no way of actually doing any damage to Pride or the abominations, so she just focuses on what she CAN do well. Also it makes me laugh (in a slightly mean way) to envision her yelling into the barely-conscious Irving’s face: HELP ME SAVE HERRING!!!!1111  
Hope everyone is well and having a good day! I’m quite impressed at how quickly I wrote this chapter, granted I only work 2.5 days a week but I do have a toddler and that’s a full time, 24/7 job ahahhaa. Especially since she’s simultaneously teething and suffering from a cold at the moment, fml.


	76. The Pride Demon

The crash of steel against steel rang out from the entrance; a rhythmic and deliberate taunt. The air reverberated with the presence of new magic: the fine hairs on the back of Flora’s neck rose with the residual static. She half-turned from where she knelt over Irving, straining to see past the mutated silhouette of the maleficar rooted in the centre of the chamber. The space was coloured in a kaleidoscope of shifting energy, the braziers competing with a half-dozen arcane hues. It was oddly surreal; as though a pointed wedge of the Fade had driven itself into the heart of the Circle Tower. 

At last, once a mindless abomination had lumbered out of the way, Flora set eyes on her companions. The battering ram that was Alistair - six feet and three inches of steel-clad muscle - stood in the ruins of the doorway. Her brother-warden’s expression was hidden by shadow, but the grim challenge of sword against shield was his. He was breathing hard, and had clearly come straight from one fight eager for the next. Flora was astonished by the raw fury on his face; so unlike the geniality that she was used to seeing across the table and on the next bedroll. She did not recognise this battle-eager warrior; eyes alight and throat open in a bellow of defiance. 

_ But I’m usually behind him when we’re in a fight. I don’t see his face. _

Alistair was flanked by the two mages, each of whom bore a staff with a gleaming head. Morrigan’s blackthorn staff was a blaze of violet flame: the witch’s eyes shone lucent as coins beneath a moneylender’s lamp. Her face was also alight with triumph: invigorated by their recent victory over Sloth in the Fade. Wynne wore a focus more appropriate for a senior instructor, although her lips twisted in dismay at so many of her brethren laid low.

As Flora stared at them across the maelstrom that was once the Harrowing Chamber, they noticed her too: crouched almost unobtrusively beside a column. Her presence was made obvious by her magic, as opposed to her diminutive physical self. The barrier - strung between the hastily arranged chairs with deceptive fragility - walled off the outer perimeter of the chamber; shielding the limp bodies of the other mages. It gleamed like gilt mesh, casting a wash of pale and watery light across the tiles. Her own shield clung to her body in a shifting and iridescent sheath.

“Alistair,” Flora breathed, delighted to see him returned intact from the Fade. “Morr- ”

** _CONCENTRATE! _ **

The sudden shriek in her ear split her focus in two: a mooring line slithering loose through the palms. In a moment of panic, Flora forgot to breathe. Her barrier sagged dangerously low between the chairs, its light dimming. Alarmed, she spent her next inhalation on renewing its vigour; watching the arcane netting blaze back to life. At the same moment her own shield flickered like a guttering candle, blown aside as her mind struggled to reform. 

She saw Irving’s face contort in warning and began to turn. The next moment, she felt herself thrust violently to the tiles; hard enough that her temple struck the stone and she saw flashes of white light. A second later the entire chamber shook with the force of an impact. Dust and fragments of stone fell like rain. Flora, dazed and convinced that she was about to be sick, lifted her eyes to see the entire top half of the column missing. An abomination lay sprawled amongst the wreckage, its head misshapen and skull shattered. A putrid liquid leaked slowly onto the tiles.

** _That would have been your skull, _ ** came the angry snarl.  ** _Except you have no brains to spill._ **

Flora, gathering her thoughts like dropped clams, realised that she had been knocked to the side by her own spirit. It had extended some part of itself through the Veil and thrust her away: a fraction of a second before the abomination had lunged. The column had taken the full force of the brute’s blow instead. 

_ Oooooh,  _ she thought unhappily, the world still dancing in doubles around her.  _ I thought I was getting better at this. _

A silence and then, begrudgingly:  ** _You are. By slow inches. _ **

“Flora!” 

Flora turned, the shield blossoming around her once again. Her head throbbed where it had struck the tiles but she swallowed the discomfort like a bitter herb. Her brother-warden had set his shield aside - realising its uselessness against a wielder of magic - and had begun the charge towards Pride. He strode forward as though he had an army at his heels: eyes fixed unwavering on the enemy and face lit up with a bold, confident fury. He bore no weapon save for a lone sword; easily wielding the double-weight blade in a single hand.

The demon that had once been Uldred sent a leeching wave of darkness across the tiles. The void energy drew in the light around it; the tiles tugged upwards from their concrete setting. Alistair did not flinch, nor did he pause. He strode towards Pride with a grim promise of death writ across his face. 

Flora reached out an arm, and this time she did not doubt her ability to shield at a distance. The dark wave of energy broke against her barrier like a tidal wall; melting away into burnt curlicues of shadow. Alistair trod them underfoot as he hunted the demon: face set hard and purposeful.

The Pride demon made a second attempt to hurl forth energy; only to find no response forthcoming. The Fade was now sealed to it: sewn shut by words that held ancient potency. The senior instructor had her sleeve rolled up and was reading a verse hastily inked along the pale skin of her forearm. 

_ “In Adralla’s name: I adjure you. In Adralla’s spirit: I sever you. In Adralla’s memory: I name you three times. Break! Break!”  _

The realisation that it was now trapped in waking world caused the demon to let out a nonsensical and maddening babel, accompanied by a crescendo of rage. Noises that made no sense began to echo between the columns: a low roll of thunder punctuated by the screams of a martyr at the stake. The sound of fire chewing through dry trees competed with the sickening chop of the headsman's ax. 

Flora watched her brother-warden loudly hurl himself into combat with all the excessive height and brawn that the Maker had granted him. Alistair was not an elegant swordsman: he fought with a brutal physicality lightly framed by Templar teachings. The stances and strikes he had learnt in the monastery, but the savagery of the assault was all his own. He wielded the sword like an extension of his own fist; Pride’s flank opened up like meat on a butcher’s slab. One thrust of the blade almost took off the creature’s forearm, a second blow severed a prominent artery. 

It began to spurt gobbets of indigo-dark, congealing blood. 

The words that Wynne was reading - smeared in hasty ink on her own skin - had rendered the demon vulnerable; for the first time in its immeasurable existence, it felt physical pain. It shrieked like a baby and lashed out; claws scything through the humming air. Alistair thrust forth his shield but was too slow; the bloody talons raked useless against a film of gold. He darted a swift eye towards Flora - sitting astonished by the ruins of the pillar, her hand stretched toward him - and then resumed his assault.

Bleeding from a half-dozen gouges, Pride shrieked an instruction. One of the abominations jolted as though struck, and then turned its subterranean face towards Alistair: raising its arms as it began a limping charge. It had taken no more than three steps before igniting in a column of concentrated flame: the ceiling and tiles singed in tight parallel. The flame shifted in colour as it grew more intense: from yellow, to red, and then finally a deep violet. The reflected light danced on Morrigan’s face as she laughed, the head of her blackthorn staff blazing in similar hue. She called out derision to the demonic creation as it crumbled to ash, her words lost in the rush of heated air. Morrigan had grown tired of the mindless Darkspawn she encountered in the Wilds: their rotten flesh caved too easily to be a true test of her skill. 

Unlike the witch, the senior instructor took no pleasure in the killing. The older woman swallowed her nausea at seeing her companions either unconscious or mutated beyond recognition. Four decades spent in the Circle would have softened one of lesser character: the silk slipper of confinement more comfortable than the leather boot. Many senior instructors now specialised wholly in the theoretical: pursuing the academic instead of the actual. Wynne, conversely, had never allowed her skills to grow idle. She had often drawn the ire of the Templars for her insistence on keeping her repertoire fresh: the launch of fire across a chamber and the use of ice to freeze a man to the ground. 

Now the practice was paying dividends. The old mage repeated the verse scrawled on her forearm; her throat shaping Ancient Tevene as fluently as Kingstongue. As her lips moved in a seamless chant, the head of her staff cut a pattern through the air. One abomination froze where it stood, like a statue grotesque from Orlesian theatre. Another found itself bound by a skein of electricity that hissed and spat, sparks flying. Her use of magic was effortless as breathing; it flowed from her like water from the wellspring. Unlike her unfortunate colleagues, Wynne had devoted equal time to the practice-chamber as to the library. Greagoir, who had known her for years and still harboured the echo of a stale longing, had turned a blind eye.

Flora’s throat prickled with every inhalation: the air was laced with residual energy. She knelt beside the half-awake Irving, one palm on his chest to keep his heart steady; watching her companions in mingled awe and admiration. She realised that they were in another league entirely when it came to battle; in comparison, she felt very much an amateur. Even Alistair, only slightly her senior, had a year in the service of the Wardens - and a year spent thus was worth two decades in the Royal Army. 

_ They’re all so skilled,  _ she thought; deflecting a bolt of bloodied hepatic air from Morrigan with the shift of a palm.  _ Look. They fight like they were made for it.  _

** _All creatures were made to fight for their survival. _ **

_ Well, I weren’t. _

Flora was grateful for her chair-barrier that separated the wounded at the chamber’s perimeter from the chaos at its middle. The centre of the room was a maelstrom of magic and violence: it was like staring into the heart of a storm. She kept a perpetual eye on her brother-warden, who was still loudly assailing Pride. She wondered if he had been taught to fight with such brutality by Duncan; whom she had only ever seen in combat during a bandit ambush on their journey to Ostagar. He had dispatched three of them with ruthless efficiency and a single dagger, not even bothering to draw his sword.

** _Of course you were made for survival. You have lived thus far, haven’t you? _ **

_ Mm. I ain’t made for THIS, though.  _

Flora decided against waving an encompassing palm in case it somehow altered the formation of her barrier: she was still not sure how this underused aspect of her shield _actually_ _worked. _

_ I was made for- _

She broke off her reply at its midpoint - the chaos in the chamber had fallen eerily quiet; as if the eye of the storm was passing overhead. 

The reason for such stillness quickly became apparent. The lesser abominations lay slain, charred beyond recognition or frozen to purplish rigidity. Pride itself was disintegrating like a paper sculpture in the wind; its physical form damaged beyond repair. With no way of escaping back to the Fade, it let out a cry like a choir of echoes: each voice distorted beyond recognition. The terrible sound faded in seconds as the body split apart; leaving a foul stain and mangled parts on the tiles. The domed crown of a human skull and a thigh bone were visible in the demon’s wreckage: all that remained of the mage Uldred.

Only then did Alistair lower his blade, breathing hard within his borrowed armour. His hair was plastered to his forehead, made dark by sweat. He looked through the ruins of the Harrowing Chamber to where Flora knelt beside Irving. Their eyes met and he took a step towards her; the adrenaline still blazing in his blood. She gazed back at him, open mouthed and transfixed. 

“Irving!” 

Wynne’s alarm broke the silence and stillness. Alistair blinked, shaking his head as though awoken from a dream. Now free from the demonic haze, the other senior mages at the perimeter of the chamber began to stir; sitting upright and darting frightened eyes towards each other. 

Flora had no desire to explain the sudden emergence of her abilities to the instructors who had dismissed her as incompetent. She recognised more of them now that they were sitting and conscious: there was the tall woman with the hawkish face who lectured Fereldan history, there was the crooked old man who taught herb lore. The elf with the nightcap was still confused; he was speaking in his native tongue to a bemused neighbour. Over the years Flora had been expelled from each of their classes, even the elementary one where children were taught to write kingstongue. She let the barrier between the chairs dissipate, deliberately looking away to distance herself from her conjuration. 

To Flora’s dismay, Irving was staring directly at her. Despite his prostrate state and the dishevelment of his general appearance; his clever blue eyes were as keen as a blade. His mouth began to form a question. 

Keen to stop any interrogation in its tracks, Flora swiftly withdrew the sheaf of treaties from her shirt. Alistair had ordered them so that the Circle accord was first; she placed the parchment gently on Irving’s battered face. 

“You are recruited,” she informed him, seeing no point in wasting time with formalities. “Ready yourselves and wait for my word.”

_ We’re going to save Herring. _

** _Fereldan, _ ** corrected her general with a snarl.

The old mage exhaled against the parchment; his gaze still set appraising on her fine-boned and cold-eyed face, dispassionate as a sculpture. A slow and astonished realisation began to dawn; eyebrows rising to meet the greying hair. 

Then Wynne was there between them, her mouth slack with worry. 

“Irving,” she said again, the word brittle. “Thank the Maker.  _ Thank the Maker.” _

“Wynne,” replied Ferelden’s First Enchanter. “For the love of Andraste.” 

No more needed to be said: the two old mages gazed at each other wordlessly. 

_ How could this happen in our Circle?  _

_ How could this happen under our noses? _

Flora took advantage of their distraction to clamber to her feet, leaving the accord now clutched in Irving’s hand. She wondered how the floor had become lopsided - surely the demon had not altered the structure of the Tower - and then realised that it was  _ she  _ who was off-balance. The knock to Flora’s head had rattled her brains thoroughly within her skull. The right side of her face felt taut; blood had dried on the skin.

“Flora.” 

It seemed like a lifetime had passed since she had last heard her name emerge from Alistair’s lips. The relief was dizzying: though perhaps this was also the aftermath of the lump on her temple. 

Flora turned to see him striding towards her, sword shoved hastily back into his belt. The Pride demon’s ichor - black and viscous - smeared his breastplate: testimony to the force and number of blows that had struck home. She went to meet him halfway but Alistair had crossed more swiftly; almost colliding with her near the broken column. He grasped Flora far more roughly than he would have done in usual circumstance; his armour crushing her in steely embrace. Flora was so relieved to be reunited with her brother-warden in the same sphere of existence that she did not mind the compression. Her palms followed the hard planes of his armour in place of his flesh; she felt the unsteady exhalation of his relief against her hair.

“Flora,” he said, and then repeated her name. “Flora.” 

He touched her hair with his glove, almost reverently. Flora gazed fixedly up at his face as though he might disappear if she blinked. She wished that there was not such a disparity in their heights. 

_ Can I stretch my own bones? _

Her spirits did not bother responding. Flora raised herself on the toes of her boots, hooking a possessive arm around the steel that protected Alistair’s neck. He bowed his head to meet her; eyes squeezed shut as he voiced a silent gratitude.

“Alistair,” she breathed, hoping that he had not been too traumatised by his experience within the Fade. 

“Are you alright?” Alistair demanded, leaning back only far enough to sweep an appraising eye along her. His gaze stopped on her blooded face and he flinched, inhaling in shock. “Shit, Flo- ”

“It’s already mended,” Flora said hastily, extracting an arm to brush her hair aside and show him her undamaged temple. “Heads bleed a lot.”

Alistair exhaled slowly -  _ she calls this an anchoring breath -  _ and let her go; reluctant but also relieved. Only then was he aware of his own soreness; the weary muscular ache of exertion, the mark of chainmail bruised into the skin. The armour suddenly seemed to weigh leaden on his shoulders, as though he were being hauled down to the tile by invisible ropes. He unfastened the clasps and let the pauldrons drop; regretting the decision as several trembling mages winced at the clatter.

“Alistair,” she whispered, feeling the soreness of his body as a dull throb. 

Alistair could not take his eyes from her: convinced that if he looked away she would vanish as she had done in the Fade. The streaks of demonic ichor that he had left on Flora’s cheek and her palms had purified into clear water; thin rivulets descending. He wanted to ask her about Duncan, and about what had happened in the Fade; if her vision of their late commander had been a reflection of true desire or just a demon’s cheap trick: a fantasy spun from the wistful remnants of past longing. 

“Flora- ” he began, and then a mocking voice cut across the tentative root of his question. 

_ “‘Flora!’ ‘Alistair!’ ‘Flora!’ ‘Alistair!’”  _ simpered Morrigan, with a roll of her yellow eye. “‘Tis possible I may RETCH. Look about you: the situation needs handling.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh this is a super unoriginal chapter title but that’s what you get on a Friday after a working week (2.5 days but still, the other 2.5 days I’m minding a toddler !) also I’m posting this from my phone. 
> 
> I wanted to show Flora’s gradual increase in confidence in combat - but that she still makes amateur mistakes. Plus she still doesn’t have a great deal of self belief in her shielding ability. And this is a chapter of unanswered questions -Irving about to ask Flora who she is and what she can do, Alistair about to ask Flora if she’s still hung up on Duncan (the lines between life and death are blurred when you’re a mage and the Fade exists!) 
> 
> My favourite moments of this chapter are Flora putting the treaty on Irving’s battered face and straight up telling him: you’re recruited! And Morrigan taking the absolute piss out of Flora and Alistair at the end :)


	77. Prepare Yourselves And Wait For My Summons!

The Harrowing Chamber had descended into chaos of a different sort. The senior mages, as they regained coherence, had descended into recriminations. Accusations flew like barbed arrows between the columns; aimed at whoever was closest. Some accused each other of being maleficar; of being in league with Uldred. Those accused retorted that perhaps those who pointed fingers were pawns of Pride itself. Each denunciation was baseless and born from shock and dismay. Bitterness soured the air like spoiled milk; curdling as the antagonism heightened. 

An involuntary grimace creased Alistair’s brow as he looked around at the resentful crowd. He swore under his breath, and cursed Uldred’s name: the maleficar was the damnable root of it all. The old Templar wariness raised its head: _ all mages were untrustworthy and all magic was dangerous. _Then he remembered the miracle of his sister-warden’s mouth, and the life that she exhaled like air. 

Flora herself was knee-deep in nostalgia: the bitterness and barbed words reminded her of home. She wondered if - in true Herring style - the highbrow intellectuals of the Circle would next break out into a mass brawl. 

** _Get on with it, _ ** instructed her general, tetchily. ** _You haven’t got the rest of the Age. _ **

** _Or do you desire that the Darkspawn swarm covers half of Ferelden?_ **

The First Enchanter was still deep in conversation with Wynne, and either oblivious or ambivalent to his warring peers. With some reluctance, Flora abandoned her improbable fantasy. She had no use for acrimonious mages, only cooperative ones. If she had been a southerner’s daughter, she might have said _ excuse me, _ but she was a child of the north and so she went: _ “Oi!” _

Her exclamation went unheard. The elf who had taught Chantry history was jabbing a furious and sparking finger at a woman with unraveling hair; the woman was puffed up with indignation: _ just because I studied with Uldred does not make me maleficar! _Greagoir and an escort of Templars, clutching the gibbering young recruit they had retrieved on the way up, stopped in the doorway: astounded. 

Flora was mildly indignant. 

_ They aren’t behaving like teachers. They’re screeching like fishwives at market. They ain’t listening to me. _

** _They must listen._ **

The chair splintered against the pillar, fracturing into pieces. The sound of its breaking echoed through the chamber like the snap of a whip. Those who had been swept up in a maelstrom of blame and accusation stopped as though frozen; the only motion their turning heads. All eyes - human, elven, huge and astonished - came to rest on Flora.

Flora dropped the remnants of the chair leg. The situation was writhing out of control like a fish squirming on the hook: she would take it in hand. 

“There is a STORM COMING,” she said, soft and vehement, and they held their breaths to listen. “A great tide that will DROWN this whole country and everything in it.” 

The First Enchanter looked straight at her and this time Flora did not look away: northerners did not care that staring was considered rude. She knew that he understood her meaning well enough; nearby, the elf mouthed the word _ Blight _to his neighbour. The old woman went grey; trembling fingers pushing her hair behind her ears. There had been rumours for months. Now, the shadows in the dark had solidified.

_ Blight _ rippled around the room; followed by a dreadful hush. _ Surely not here in Ferelden. Surely, not now. Not in our time. _

“HERE,” said Flora, her pale stare cold as rain in winter. “NOW.”

She gave them a moment to digest this. Someone had begun to sob quietly in the far corner, the sound muffled in a dressing gown sleeve. Another mage was muttering under their breath; it was either a prayer or blasphemy. When Flora opened her mouth to speak again, both fell silent.

_ “You _ sort this out,” she continued, with a sweep of her palm that encompassed everything around and underneath her: the remnants of Uldred, the ruined chamber, the devastation that had swept through the lower floors. “It ain’t our job. You have to be ready.” 

Flora could see the accord grasped in Irving’s hand; a slender and innocuous roll of parchment. The enchantment that kept the page intact also prevented the ink from sinking into the aged vellum. She had not been able to read the scribbled and archaic script, but Alistair had named the signatory: _ First Enchanter Haelmar. _

_ They are listening to me, aren’t they? _

** _To every word. _ **

Flora raised her finger to the south and so imperious was her beauty and the bluntness of her speech that they all looked; as though the wall would fall away at her will and reveal the masses swarming in the Wilds. 

“Prepare yourselves,” she said, flinty-eyed and final. “Wait for my summons.” 

There was no invitation for discussion; or opportunity for dissent. To Flora, the Ages-old accord she wielded had the authority to ensure obedience. She did not realise that - equally potent - was the authoritative cant of her body: the haughty sovereign features, the command in the unblinking stare. She drew attention like a lodestone, the pull magnetic and compelling. The blood on her face had dried like _ kaddis. _In the days before history was written, the Alamarri had worn the war paint on their faces. 

The First Enchanter gave a slow, silent nod; his eyes hollow points. 

_ Ha, _ thought Flora, triumphant. _ We are going to save Herring! _

** _FERELDEN. _ **

There was a hush, and then a slow rustle of murmuring sprouted; far from the razor-edged, accusatory hysteria of Pride’s immediate aftermath. There was a purpose to conversation now, soft and grim, and the word that surfaced most often was _ time. _

_ How much remains? _

_ Will it be enough? _

Alistair looked at his sister-warden. She appeared shorter than she had done minutes prior: when she was speaking he could have sworn that she stood no less tall than himself. Flora had cast off her authority like a cloak in a firewarmed chamber; she was gazing around with the usual vagueness. He looked at her and knew with utter certainty what Flora was _ not, _even if he did not yet understand the full implications of such a supposition.

_ If she’s just a girl from Herring, I’ll eat my helm. _

The next candle-length passed swiftly. Those who could walk left the Harrowing Chamber without looking back, astounded at their own survival. An air of grim purpose now permeated through Kinloch Hold; infusing its residents with similar determination. Instead of being left to stew on their failure to detect blood magic in their midst, they had a chance to redeem themselves; to focus on an external enemy instead of ruminating on a traitor.

Alistair waited for Irving to finish a brief exchange with Greagoir. The Knight-Commander’s face had dissolved into - quickly suppressed - relief on seeing the First Enchanter alive and intact. Once the Templar had turned away the young Warden stepped forward, opening his mouth to introduce himself.

Irving halted him with an age-scored palm. The mage had not forgotten the genial, towering youth that had accompanied Duncan to the Circle several months prior. 

“Alistair,” he said quietly, dabbing at a cut on his brow with a square of silk. “I remember you well enough. I apologise for the state you found us in - and thank you for your part in relieving it. We owe you and your companions a great debt.”

Instead of the usual clench of pain that followed Duncan’s name, Alistair felt only a hollow melancholy, less sharp and more somber. He wondered if grief evolved over time: still present, but clad in different guises.

“Well, there’s a way that you can repay us,” he said, then added hastily, “apart from lending your aid against the Darkspawn. Do you know the Arl of Redcliffe?”

While Alistair and Irving conversed in low tones, Flora continued to mend those who had been struck down during the confrontation with Pride. Fortunately, the injuries were not too severe: ranging from arcane burns to minor lacerations of the flesh. She avoided meeting the stares of those she healed; bowing her face lower than was needed over their wounds. A few spoke to her and she pretended not to hear, or offered a muttered lie about needing to focus on her mending. She could feel their incredulity on her skin like a rash. They had known her as the _ Vase - _in a confined space like the Tower, even the juvenile insults of apprentices drifted upstairs - and a mage of negligible ability. 

Determined to avoid interrogation, Flora stared with renewed intensity at the blistered and bloodied meat before her. Her mending had not lost its novelty over her years. She never tired of seeing new skin spread like webbing; fibrous strands knitting together into a raw swathe of flesh. 

_ Is the First Enchanter still looking? _

Her spirits ignored her: not deigning to answer a question that could be resolved with a turn of the head. 

Flora sighed a deep sigh and risked a glance over her shoulder. Her eyes met Irving’s clever, birdlike stare: his blue gaze like a dart. She hastily returned her attention to the burned limb before her, belly churning with irrational anxiety. 

“I don’t believe I remember you from my classes.” 

The thoughtful voice came from the woman attached to the burnt limb. Flora replied with an ambiguous grunt; hoping that this would satisfy the senior instructor.

The woman twisted a ring with a small red stone around her finger as she spoke. 

“Were you at Jainen Circle?”

“No.” 

A dark eyebrow rose. “Surely not an apostate?”

“No.” Flora wished that there were more casualties: everyone had been restored to intactness and she had no excuse for escape. “I were here.”

Only in the Circle could Flora be forgettable; her face counted for naught when set against her perceived ignorance.

_ “Was _here,” corrected the instructor. “I recall all my advanced students.”

Flora felt a sweat break out on her forehead: she hated teachers. 

“I weren’t in an advanced class,” she replied, wondering she could escape. “I never got beyond elementary.” 

The woman shot her a skeptic’s hawkish stare; clearly, she believed Flora to be lying. 

Flora rose to her feet - grateful that she no longer needed permission to leave an instructor’s company - and turned towards her brother-warden; who was still standing near Irving.

Alistair made both the First Enchanter and Commander seem like dwarves; his height placed him head and shoulders above the next tallest man in the chamber. Despite his brawn and the breadth of his shoulder, Flora observed a general slump of weariness. Two consecutive battles had bowed Alistair’s head and scored creases across his brow. 

Flora shot him an anxious glance from the tail of her eye as she came to a halt. She wished fervently that they were alone so that she could see if there were any injuries beneath the borrowed armour. Alistair looked back down at her and the corner of his mouth bowed upwards, instinctive. He almost reached out to take her hand and then remembered that they were not alone; that their fish-rope affirmation ought to take place somewhere more private. He wanted to ask her about the Fade and about Duncan; at the same time, he was worried about how she might respond. 

“We’ve a new companion for the road,” he said instead easily, canting his head towards the stern-faced senior mage who had accompanied them through the tower. “The lady Wynne has offered the use of her staff against the Darkspawn.”

The woman nodded, her mouth drawn taut. 

“I’ll not sit idle while another tragedy brews under my nose,” Wynne informed them, briskly. “I may have been blind to Uldred’s madness, but I won’t make the same mistake twice.” 

Flora’s stomach sank: _ a TEACHER! _She was not a southerner and so she made no pretence at delight; a half-hearted grunt escaped her throat as she eyed the older woman. 

** _You must learn to greet new allies with more enthusiasm than that, _ ** chided her general, disapproving. ** _This mage has great ability. She will be an asset. _ **

“She had better not try to teach _me _anything.” Morrigan cut across their conversation with the usual bite: the witch was leaning against a pillar with arms folded, glowering. “The last thing I desire is to be lectured on magic by a _Circle_ _grandmother.”_

It was rare that Flora found herself agreeing with Morrigan. 

Wynne smiled and said nothing. 

“Wynne has many years of experience,” the First Enchanter said, gratefully sinking into a chair thrust forward. “And yet she also has the inexplicable vigour of youth. It is a source of much puzzlement and envy. But I believe she will be a great help to you against the Darkspawn.” 

Irving paused for the briefest moment, his eye flickering to the Templar commander. When he spoke next it was in an undertone, audible only to those who stood near. 

“And against Mac Tir.”

Muted as it was, it was a declaration of political alignment. Greagoir heard it but made no correction, though his lips folded until they whitened. 

Alistair drew in a relieved breath and glanced at Flora, who was looking more cheerful now that the Circle had declared in their favour.

“It won’t take me long to gather my things.” Wynne gave a nod, eyes distant as she estimated the volume of her necessities. “I keep a bag prepared for such events.” 

“Blights?” 

The instructor half-smiled at Alistair’s question. 

“Unexpected journeys.”

Morrigan had sidled back into the shadows, eager to be off. In her hand, she clutched a slender tome that looked to be bound with leather. Her cloak also made a rustling sound when it moved - for all her contempt of Circles, the witch was happy to pilfer from their libraries. 

Alistair was mid-turn towards Flora when he caught sight of several slightly built Tranquil struggling to remove the debris from the doorway. After a moment of dilemma, he yielded to his conscience and went to assist: his build made such a task inconsequential.

Flora watched her brother-warden lift the remnants of an oak door as though it were made from year-old driftwood. She then realised - to her horror - that she was the only one left in Irving’s company. The First Enchanter was staring at her as though two stuck pages of a book had peeled apart, revealing some new and startling text. A senior instructor with bristling whiskers was trying to get his attention; Irving dismissed him with the lift of a finger 

“Flora O’Ferryn,” he said slowly, musing over each syllable. “Apostate from the Storm Coast, age and parentage unclear. I looked up your Circle record after Duncan conscripted you.” 

Flora had not known that she was the subject of any record. She did not bother correcting the First Enchanter: that the Templar who admitted her four years prior had misheard her northern enunciation of _ Flora, of Herring. _

_ “Conjuring Basics,’” _ he said, as if reading from a paper in hand. _ “‘Nil Progress. Studies in the Art of Emanation. Nil Progress. Alchemy: from Algaroth to Zaffre. Nil progress.’” _

Flora felt as though her feet were lead, and that she was slowly sinking to the bottom of some oceanic trench. She focused on the faded tiles above Irving’s head; a geometric array of crimson and white. The ceiling was perhaps the only part of the Harrowing Chamber that had escaped unscathed. 

“Now, this is interesting,” Irving continued, as though she could see the parchment he referred to. _ “‘Manifestation and Manipulation of the Aether: some inconsequential and rudimentary progress.’” _

Flora wished that a small, relatively harmless abomination would appear and start rampaging through the debris of the Harrowing Chamber: weak enough to be easily subdued, yet distracting enough to divert Irving’s attention. 

Irving fixed her with a stare like the pin that secured the butterfly to the board. 

“The reshaping of a fractured skull. The repair of a ruptured spleen,” the First Enchanter said, recalling each wound that Flora had mended. “The fusing of rended flesh. The mending of a failing heart. This is not _ inconsequential. _ This is not _ rudimentary.” _

Flora wondered if she was being told off. She could feel her own heart assailing some unfortunate spur of bone within her chest. 

“The summoning of a shield,” Irving said, soft and wondering. “That not even the wrath of a Pride demon could penetrate. I have not seen equal in my six decades spent studying the Fade. The structure of it - it was almost - _ organic.” _

_ I hope he don’t ask me anything about it, _ Flora thought darkly, letting her gaze drift down the line of a broken column. _ I can’t explain how it works. Why couldn’t I just have normal magic? _

Her general gave a rather nasty laugh. 

“‘Spirit healer’” the First Enchanter mused, eyes bright with curiosity. “The Warden-Commander suggested as much before you joined us in my office, the night you were conscripted. I admit, I didn’t believe him at the time. I suppose the Rivaini are more familiar with such rare schools of magic. Still…”

The latter part of the sentence curled into the air unspoken: _ still, I was surprised that it was you. _

Flora could hear the sound of her teeth grinding in her head. She decided that - First Enchanter or no - the conversation was now over. She let her wintery eyes settle on Irving once again, casting him in the light of an old man with a wavering heart; a patient rather than her old superior.

“We’re leaving,” she said, startled by the flint in the tone. “As soon as Instructor Wynne is ready.”

Irving inclined his head in agreement. “I will accompany you as far as Redcliffe. Your companion has requested my aid in the matter of a possessed boy.” 

Flora realised that she had almost forgotten about Connor Guerrin. She nodded, hoping that this new conversational tangent would steer Irving away from the topic of herself.

“Mm. You can help him?”

The First Enchanter paused, and then gave a slight nod. 

“I believe so.” 

The Harrowing Chamber had grown less crowded around them as the occupants filtered out in groups of two and three. The name _ Uldred _ passed between them on occasion, but far more frequent came the word _ Blight. _

_ A Fifth Blight, in our time! And with King Cailan dead and the Wardens slain. _

_ Well- we’re all dead men to be sure. I always thought that demons would be the end of me, one way or the other. _

_ Aye, or Templars. Not bloody Darkspawn. _

_ At least we’ll go down fighting, not penned up like rats in this Tower. _

Flora overheard an array of comments as they left and scowled at their departing shoulders. Despite her streak of innate melancholy - northerners gravitated towards the pessimistic - she was not pleased by the suggestion that Herring - _ Ferelden _ \- was doomed. 

Biting back her annoyance, she turned back to Irving, surveying Ferelden’s foremost mage doubtfully. The First Enchanter was still clad in a patterned dressing robe, beard tangled like sheep’s wool- he looked more ready for a nap than for a long journey. 

“You got a horse?” she asked, eyeing the torn remnants of his slippers. 

This time, the old man’s smile was genuine. 

“Child, we have a _ ship.” _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw poor Flora I do like undermining her as soon as she does something cool, lol. She gives the mages her recruitment speech A STORM IS COMING! and then immediately afterwards gets a reminder of quite how comprehensively crap she was as a student, lol. “Didn’t you suck at everything?” Why, yes, yes she did :) lol! Poor Flora, now they’ve got a schoolteacher joining them! Of course Wynne is a lot more than a schoolteacher - I actually love Wynne, she trumps Leliana and Morrigan for my favourite female companion. 
> 
> Hope everyone is doing well! Thank you for reading, I’m so stunned at how many people are interested in following my silly story hahaha. Thank yoooou!


	78. You Are A Commander Now

The young Warden-recruits spent the next candle-length amongst an ever-changing flux of people. Alistair was not entirely sure which level of the Tower they were waiting on - each circular landing was uniform in design - but was relieved to put some distance between themselves and the battle-scarred upper floors. Aside from the devastation in the apprentice dormitories, the lower part of Kinloch Hold had escaped with only marginal damage. There were a few suspicious stains on the tiles, and a tapestry hung in a fold of woven fabric from the wall; otherwise, the corridor seemed intact. 

Alistair and Flora stood elbow-to-elbow near the stairs, each comforted by the presence of the other. They were far from alone; a thoughtful Irving accompanied them for a time and then went to gather his possessions; the Knight-Commander summoned the Templars chosen to escort the Circle party. While Greagoir issued instructions, Wynne arrived clutching her staff and a deceptively small leather bag. A group of Tranquil filtered past the senior instructor with implacable serenity, wielding brooms, buckets and mops. 

Morrigan disappeared for a short time, taking advantage of the disjointed activity to rummage through the nearby archives. She returned with a coy, flickering smile and the rustle of parchment beneath her cloak. 

Throughout the constant ebb and flow, Alistair remained aware of his sister-warden. They stood silently alongside each other, elbows brushing on occasion; eyes set on the landing before them. Only a half-minute of privacy was granted to them between the departure of Irving and the arrival of Wynne; during this thirty seconds they turned to each other like the closing doors of a cabinet. He clenched the grubby hem of her shirt, as though his sword-hand’s grip might prevent her from slipping back through the Veil. Her eyes dropped the full length of his body and back; searching for any wound that she could mend.

“Flora,” he began after a speechless moment, and then came the unwelcome advent of footsteps. The acoustics of the curving stairwell gave fair warning of impending company: both recruits drew apart in unspoken accord. 

The senior instructor appeared in the doorway with staff and bag, accompanied by one of the Tranquil. The former mage appeared to be a clerk: he wielded parchment and a dripping ink-pen. A small pair of round lenses rested on the bridge of his nose. Wynne murmured in low and unhurried tones; the clerk began his transcription.

“A teacher,” breathed Flora as she watched the elderly mage dictate. “I can’t believe a TEACHER is comin’ with us.”

“Now you know how I felt when a _ priestess _joined our party.” 

Alistair’s response was deliberately casual. His elbow sought the pressure of hers once again but now there was something that prevented it; some careless shift in footing, but it seemed as though the perennial spectre of Duncan had materialised between them once again. Flora was troubled by what had happened in the Fade, he could tell: there was a brooding cast to her mouth and her pale eyes were distant. Alistair was conflicted - he wanted to comfort her and yet he also wanted to demand _ I thought that was past, I thought - _

_ Last night, didn’t we - didn’t we almost? _

_ Surely that wouldn’t have almost happened if you still felt… felt something for him? _

Beside him, Flora inhaled deeply and lifted her chin: she had clearly just given herself a stern internal talking-to. At the far side of the landing, Wynne had opened her bag and was checking its contents a final time: it seemed to consist of nothing but books. On seeing this, Flora’s nostrils flared.

“She’s going to try and _ educate _ me,” she warned ominously, picking up the loose thread of her earlier remark. “I don’t want it.” 

“I thought you wanted to learn ‘_ the letters’, _” Alistair said as though speaking from a dream, startled at how despondent he felt. “You know, how to read. To write.” 

“Mm,” Flora replied. “But you said that you would teach me.” 

Alistair hesitated, and then looked at her. His sister-warden was a hook that snared the eye and sunk barbs into the flesh: he clung to his question in case it slipped away in the face of her beauty.

“Do you still want me,” he said, then added hastily, _ “to?” _

He saw her lips part, and then Morrigan cleared her throat. The witch had sidled soundless to their side, her leather bound feet making no disturbance on the tile. 

“So, she-Warden” she interjected, eyes flashing gleefully. “Just to be clear - did you almost lose your much-coveted virginity to a _demon_ or a _demonic_ _illusion? _‘Tis important for me to be accurate when I relay this amusing tale to my mother later.” 

Alistair’s jaw dropped; Flora’s face became even stonier than usual. Morrigan then seemed to realise that this was perhaps too much - even from _ her - _and relented slightly.

“_ Bah _ , ‘twas a joke and nothing more. You know as well as I that Fade-dreams count for nothing in this world: otherwise Alistair here would not be so _ obviously a virgin.” _

Alistair let out a groan and wondered if he could persuade the Templars to host Morrigan for an extended stay. Despite the protection that accompanying Wardens awarded her; he was willing to bribe them with all his - well, Teagan’s - worldly wealth. 

“Don’t be mean to Flora,” he said lamely instead, wishing fervently that Irving had not just returned. He did not want to lose his temper in front of the First Enchanter; not when he and Flora alone were carrying the banner for the Wardens.

Alistair then realised that Flora had vanished; disappearing down the steps to the rear. He briefly considered going after her, but then remembered the confusing network of stairs they had ascended earlier that day: Kinloch Hold was a warren built skywards. 

The First Enchanter did not approach them. Irving was conversing with Wynne with deliberate quietness; the woman nodded, then offered a wry smile and a reply. Her eyes darted to Alistair, and then the space where Flora had been. The two senior mages resumed their conversation as Wynne pulled on the sleeves of her travel cloak. It was surprisingly patched and weatherbeaten for the garb of a Circle mage. 

Alistair was relieved that Irving was preoccupied: he was not in the mood for conversation. His body ached from the exertion of two consecutive battles; his shield-arm felt as though it were about to drop off. When he inhaled, each rib sang a protest. He angled himself away from Morrigan, hoping that the witch would get the message. 

“What’s this?” She had not. “Surely not a sulk? Is such moping suitable behaviour for a Warden of the Grey?” 

Alistair ground his teeth. 

“It’s _ Grey Warden, _actually,” he said: hoping that his ominous tone would dissuade her from probing any further. “And I’m not sulking. I’m sore. And hungry.” 

_ “You are sulking,” _ Morrigan pronounced, each word a dart. “One may wonder _ why, _since you have achieved all that you set out to do here, and proven some competence in combat to our new allies. Ah! but of course. You are brooding over your “sister’s” Fade fantasies.” 

Alistair wished that some Templar would come along and blast Morrigan in the face with a silence potent enough to last a week. He then remembered that _ silences _were only intended to suppress spells, not speech. Swiftly, he ran through a series of suitably barbed retorts, and then - too weary to argue - yielded. 

“Yes,” he said, quietly. “How am I meant to compete with a dead man?”

For a moment Morrigan looked astonished - she had expected more verbal sparring. 

“Just _ bed her _and exorcise his ghost,” she said, loud enough to draw a scowl from Knight-Commander Greagoir. “‘Tis obvious she has a preference for hulking brutes. She would not turn you down.”

Alistair gaped silently for a moment. 

“I don’t want to - to just _ bed _her,” he said, mouth dry at the thought. “I want to- to- ”

The witch shot him a look of pity-laced horror. “Please, spare me the nauseating detail.” 

Alistair heaved a sigh that rose from the bottom of his boots. He wanted to strip off the remainder of the borrowed armour and sit; to close his eyes and exhale the tension from his body. The only part of the Templar monastery that he remembered with fondness were the stone baths. Despite the Chantry’s disdain for the pagan Tevinter empire; they had no issue with borrowing their innovations in hygiene.

Before he could feel even more sorry for himself, the First Enchanter was before him: a slender grey streak of a man against the stone. 

“Are you and your companions ready to depart?” Irving enquired, blue eyes alight with the anticipation of travel. 

Alistair was astonished at how rapidly the aged mage had recovered from his ordeal at the hands of Pride. The man looked in better physical condition than he had done during their recruitment visit several months prior. The pallor that had once clung to his skin had lifted; the half-moon shadows beneath his eye had paled. Flora’s mending had inadvertently rejuvenated the old man: he seemed ten years younger.

“Yes,” said Alistair, then hesitated. “My sister-warden -Flora - she’s gone somewhere.” 

“I’m sure she’ll find us before we depart,” interjected Wynne, with the briskness of a schoolteacher. “Let’s not waste a moment more.” 

It was a far calmer descent than it had been an ascent. An eerie sense of calm had fallen on Kinloch Hold: the worst had happened, and they had survived. There had been casualties, but most had lived; several floors had been reduced to ruins, but the Circle had room to spare. News of Knight-Commander Greagoir’s reluctance to request permission for an Annulment quickly spread. 

Alistair followed in Wynne’s footsteps, watching the bob of her polished white bun descend the stair before him. Irving had not told a falsehood: the woman moved with a youthful vigour, refusing Alistair’s offer of assistance with her pack. On the contrary, Alistair himself felt several decades beyond his years: his body ached like an old man’s. The borrowed armour was not intended for a man of his height and breadth of torso; it chafed at the skin and drove the links of Alistair’s mail into the flesh.

“Do you know how long the child has been possessed for?” The curved wall of the staircase angled the First Enchanter’s question back up towards Alistair. “Or the nature of the demon involved?” 

Alistair could not remember if they had ever been made aware of either. The events of Redcliffe Castle seemed to have happened in the distant past. 

“I don’t know,” he said, relieved that the passing window framed a prosaic view of Lake Calenhad, instead of some twisted dreamscape. “I know the maleficar responsible for it though - you’ll recognise this name.” 

From the stiffening of Wynne’s shoulders and the slight lift of her head, Alistair could tell that she had guessed what he was about to say. 

“Jowan,” the senior instructor said heavily, confirming Alistair’s suspicion. “Our first failing.” 

From the weary note in her tone he guessed that she was not referring to Jowan’s capability, but more the Circle’s blindness to his experimentation. Morrigan opened her mouth to make a snide comment, then thought better of it; she did not want to draw too much attention to herself while she had half the contents of the library beneath her cloak. 

“The arlessa hired him as a tutor for Connor,” Alistair replied, compressing himself against the wall to allow a pair of serene-faced Tranquil to pass. “She wanted to hide the fact that he was a mage.” 

A sigh drifted up the spiral stair: Irving was shaking his head.

“Magic is not something you can easily _ suppress,” _ Ferelden’s First Enchanter commented acerbically, as though Isolde stood on the step below. “It does not take well to being _ concealed. _It is as much a part of the body as the blood and the bone. Did the arlessa believe that the boy would grow up to govern as arl? To rule Redcliffe with his magic shut up as though in the castle dungeons?” 

They had almost reached the ground floor: Alistair could hear the murmur of people and movement below. The air carried daylight mingled with the glow from the fire; the great wooden doors must have been opened. 

“I think,” he replied, as they emerged into the foyer, “she just didn’t want her son to be taken away.” 

The columns framed a scene far less chaotic than the one they had walked in on earlier that day. There were no more wounded lying on the tiles: they had either been mended or removed to the infirmary. A half-dozen mages were waiting beside the fireplace, hemmed in by a hastily gathered array of baggage. Nearby stood a dozen Templar - two for each mage. In total, a party of twenty would be accompanying the Wardens to Redcliffe. Supplies had already been organised; crates piled precariously near the door. Kinloch Hold operated like an Orlesian clock that had fallen from a mantel but still worked: the battered mechanisms rotating dutifully into their designated place.

The stillness did not match the numbers gathered in the foyer: it was quiet enough to hear the fire gnawing through the last of its fuel. Like rural folk watching a newcomer, all eyes were set unblinking on the front door. Alistair then realised that they were not watching the door itself, but the girl beside it. The emotion was raw on their faces: curiosity, wariness, and something not easily labelled. Flora was standing alone near the torn remnants of a tapestry. Despite the fact that she had been their peer - or at least, a fellow Kinloch Hold resident - for four years, nobody had ventured across to speak to her.

In their defence, his sister-warden did not invite any casual approach. She seemed separate from the surroundings, the face cold and unyielding as Antivan marble. Her eyes were distant and she stood motionless; like some figure cut into a stone frieze. 

Ten weeks prior, Alistair would have been equally alienated. At first he had not found Flora’s imperial beauty agreeable in the slightest. It was intimidating and disconcerting in equal measure; it made his sentences lose their course partway-through and drift, aimless and nonsensical. He had often found himself talking to the air above her head to avoid looking directly at her, which was simple enough given their disparity in height. 

Now Flora’s face turned towards him, drawn by the heated touch of his attention. She looked him in the eye and Alistair did not blink, nor did he drop his gaze. She scoured him with her cold seawater stare and he met it with an assurance that he had never known he possessed.

_ My father would never have been afraid to look a man in the eye, _he found himself thinking; simultaneously astonished by the reference. 

_ Imperious or not, that queenly face doesn’t intimidate me anymore. _

Alistair strode towards her across the hexagonal tile and he saw the corner of her mouth quirk upwards. Flora was always economical with expression, and he had learnt that this was the equivalent of a smile. 

“I got you some food from the kitchen,” she said in her hoarse northern cadence; presenting a hessian bag. “To make up for no breakfast. Just some bread and pears. Also: apples.”

He didn’t respond at first, surveying Flora closely. A few flaking remnants of blood still clung to her cheekbone; he pressed a thumb to the skin to remove them. She held her breath as he touched her face; her lips parted and eyes fixed on his. Alistair wished fervently that they were alone, and realised - to his dismay - that their chances of being so diminished with every addition to their party.

Still, he resolved to make the best of it: they were both alive and intact, on the right side of the Veil; they had recruited the mages to their cause and to Connor’s. 

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said quietly, and then, more strident, “Right now this looks more appealing than a seven-course banquet.” 

Flora, who had no idea what a seven-course banquet was, nodded solemnly. 

The sun continued its leisurely descent towards the Orlesian border. The Circle ship sat long and low in the water like some aquatic creature risen to the surface. The bow ended in a traditional curve and each mast was weighed with a dual-hung sail designed to make the most of Calenhad’s changeable winds. It was anchored behind a spur of rock to the rear of Kinloch Hold; a jetty that - either through magic or a trick of perspective -was not visible from the tower’s windows. No flag was fixed to the highest mast: when the First Enchanter left the Circle, he preferred to journey with some discretion. A late afternoon mist clung to the masts like an ethereal second sail. 

Word had long ago reached the ship of their departure: the captain was a Tranquil, his crew well-paid villagers from the mainland. A skiff had already been sent across to retrieve the Wardens’ horse and baggage from the Spoiled Princess.

Irving was surprisingly sprightly for a man of his years. The First Enchanter led the way across the dock towards the boarding ramp; Wynne matching him stride for stride. Servants streamed in both directions with full and then empty crates. Alistair and Flora, to the contrary, felt far wearier: he from the exertion of combat, she from the expenditure of magic. Both young Wardens trudged in the wake of their elders; feeling as though they ought to be the ones sporting the grey hairs and wrinkles. Morrigan, blistering at the glares of the Templars, had taken herself off to the upper mast. She surveyed them with her glossy avian eye, feathers ruffling with each shifting current of air. 

Flora leaned her elbows on the ship’s rail and surveyed the hull from bow to stern. She was grudgingly impressed by the size of the vessel - it was three times the length of the fishing boat they had sailed north in - but thought privately that such a ship was wasted on a _ lake. _

** _Calenhad is the largest inland body of water in Thedas._ **

_ Ain’t no sea though. _

** _It is vast and fathoms deep. _ **

_ Ain’t got a tide though. _

Exasperated: ** _It is astounding that the Theirin youth has fondness for you, infuriating child._ **

_ Who? _

** _Alistair. _ **

_ Oh. I forgot he has two names. _

Flora then realised that Alistair was talking to her, his eyes fixed on yet another arriving crate. From their position on the ship’s upper deck, they had a good view of the gangplank. A pair of servants were manhandling yet another crate on board: from their laboured breathing and red cheeks, it looked a heavy one.

“Why do they need so much food?” He asked, his elbow pressed against hers on the rail. “It’s only a day’s sail to Redcliffe.”

“Dunno.” 

Flora leaned forward, spotting a lid that sat crooked on its container. A corner of the crate’s contents was visible: an array of packaged violet stones, each thrumming with subtle energy. She could taste the arcane prickling on her tongue even from a distance. 

“I don’t think it’s all food. I think it’s… it’s things to help with the arl’s son. To help with… whatever they’re planning.” 

Flora had no idea how the First Enchanter was planning to exorcise the demon from the child. Whatever the ritual entailed, it seemed to require a large array of resources. 

Alistair shot her a swift, sideways glance; their thoughts aligned on a similar path.

_ The First Enchanter of Ferelden is bringing a half-dozen mages and a host of specialised equipment to face the abomination. _

“Well, probably wasn’t the best idea to go into Redcliffe Castle with just four of us, then,” he observed drily, recalling the ladder-drop, the tunnel, the dungeons and the demon. It seemed like a lifetime ago now: it had been only a handful of days.

His sister-warden gave a grunt of half-agreement, thinking _ four of us, and my spirits too. _

On the lower deck, the First Enchanter’s conversation with the captain had just drawn to a close. The crew were swarming over ropes, anchors, masts and sails; preparing the mid-sized vessel for launch. Flora watched the great swathes of canvas unfold, each sail struggling against its handlers in its eagerness to catch the wind. The windlass gave a croaking chant as it hoisted the anchor by several feet at a time.

_ This boat wouldn’t last a second in the Waking Sea. It’d be blown away like a leaf in a pond. _

She felt a great groan of wood beneath her feet, the sound welling up from the bowels of the ship as it shifted. Between the hull and the jetty inches became feet, feet stretched to yards, and then they were in open water. Unoccupied crew were lighting lanterns along the length of the ship: from the hue of the western sky, sunset was only a half-candle away. 

Flora realised then that Irving was watching them from the lower deck, the old man’s face catching the firelight like a pale thumbprint. This time, there was more than curiosity scored into the furrowed brow. The First Enchanter was looking to her and Alistair as though waiting for something; his stare steady and expectant. 

Alistair shifted beside her, he had noticed the senior mage’s attention too. At last - after a swift glance at Flora- the young man returned Irving’s stare with a brief nod. The First Enchanter seemed satisfied with this, turning his attention to the receding view of Kinloch Hold.

_ What was that about, _ Flora thought idly, digging her nail into the wooden rail. _ Why was he looking to us? _

** _Well, you are both commanders now._ **

_ NO! _A splinter embedded itself into her finger. 

** _You have recruited your first army. _ **

Flora was horrified. 

_ I don’t want to be a commander. I just want to mend people. _

There came no reply. Flora gave a deep sigh, suddenly feeling rather sorry for herself. She extracted the splinter from her finger with her teeth, spitting it out with more vehemence than was intended. 

Alistair eyed his sister-warden; noticing the faint line that had scored itself across her forehead. He wondered whether to ask her about Duncan - and then thought better of it, resolving to let her bring up the matter if she so wished. 

Flora stuck her finger between her lips, letting the restorative balm of her saliva mend the punctured flesh. He could tell that she was still aggrieved: it showed itself on her sculpted face as mild pensiveness.

“If you’re hungry,” Alistair said easily, drawing her attention from the voices in her head by offering the hessian sack. “We could have our late breakfast now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy DA day! Thank fuck this hideous year is almost over. On the plus side my baby is the most gorgeous creature in the entire world and she grew up so much this year so I’ll always appreciate 2020 for that at least.
> 
> Anyway, I really liked this chapter! I wanted to tie up the Circle stuff a little more extensively than I did last time. I also wanted another ship chapter so now they’re sailing to Redcliffe. It just makes sense to me! 
> 
> Also I like that even Morrigan realised that she’s overstepped the bounds with her comment to Flora; and backtracks. And then she tries to give Alistair some actual advice! 
> 
> Poor Flora: looks like her vision of just being a mender in the rearguard is also just a dream, lol.
> 
> Have a good weekend!


	79. You’re Everywhere I Look

The western horizon was a sallow eddy of cloud: a blanched sun slunk off to hide beyond the Frostbacks. In its wake it left a world of monochrome, the sky and shore cast in hues of grey. Lines of fir trees bristled on the shore; beyond rose the undulating terrain of the Bannorn. The air was as cold and crisp as the first bite of an apple. Irving’s ship sailed south, Kinloch Hold diminishing with each league covered. The Circle Tower shrunk to a silhouetted finger on the coast, standing stark and stern against a backdrop of twilight. It looked benign enough from a distance, bearing no sign of the horrors it had witnessed in recent days. 

Yet there was no need to drop anchor at the waning of the light: tonight the Lake was placid and the winds submissive. The sailors had already strung up lanterns between the masts and along the railings: the ship plowed onwards like a terrestrial constellation. The waves met the wood in gentle rhythm; the internal parts of the hull conversed in muted groans and creaks. Navigating Calenhad’s sedate waters was a quieter undertaking than sailing the open ocean. 

Most mages had already retreated to their quarters below-deck, trailing their Templar escorts. Wynne, the senior instructor who had pledged to journey with the Wardens beyond Redcliffe, was standing alone at the ship’s elevated stern. She was looking back at the shadowed outline of Kinloch Hold: her expression hidden by a mass of shadow. One of the Circle servants, distinct in their sage-green livery, approached to offer her a shawl. The elder mage shook her head in an absentminded denial, her eyes fixed on the shrinking tower. The Nearby Tranquil captain stood at the wheel, his face as placid as the water beneath the bow. He did not acknowledge Wynne, nor she him. 

Alistair and Flora, in unspoken agreement, had found a place to sit away from the pensive mage and patrolling Templars. He claimed a crate as a seat; she was content to lean against the rail, watching the reflection of the lanterns in the water. Even with him seated and her standing, the disparity in their heights and the length of his torso brought his head to the level of her shoulder. 

“Do you want to finish it?” 

Alistair offered up the last part of the loaf. it had been Flora’s half originally, but she had taken only a few bites, suddenly lacking an appetite. Unlike the senior instructor, Flora had turned her back on Kinloch Hold as it receded from view. 

“Eh, no,” she said vaguely after a moment, darting an eye at the remnants of the bread. “You have it.” 

“I’ll save it,” he replied, folding it back in the cheesecloth. “In case you get hungry later.” 

Flora curved the corner of her mouth at him, her eyes distant. She did not want to think about the events of the Circle - or about what had happened in the Fade - but the memories stung like fresh wounds: raw and pink. She had not enjoyed her four years at Kinloch Hold; she had gained neither an education nor friends; yet seeing it eviscerated had shocked her to her core. It was the second time that she had witnessed a bastion of power and authority crumble away. The words that had branded themselves into her mind after Ostagar’s massacre burned hot once again. 

_ Men can fail. Plans can fail. Courage can fail. _

_ Mages can fail. Circles can fall. _

Flora took an anchoring breath, feeling her lungs press against the confines of her ribs. She focused instead on her brother-warden as he drained the last dregs of ale. Even seated, the proportions of Alistair’s body were vast and bulky enough to dominate the space around him. He stood out against the sallow evening air: the tawny skin and burnished hair held a heat that a winter sunset could never emulate. Two day’s worth of growth darkened his jaw. 

“You don’t look sick,” she observed, recalling his pallor on their fishing-boat journey north. 

Alistair thought for a moment and then realised that Flora was right: his body ached from the rigours of impact, but his belly was settled. 

“Well, I suppose I’ve found my sea legs.” 

Flora nodded, turning to press the small of her back to the railing. The slap of water against the hull was comforting; even if her nostrils still craved the pungent tang of salt. The shore meandered along in darkness, broken by the occasional cluster of dotted light. She wondered what each settlement was called, or if they were too small to warrant a title. Herring had been named by its inhabitants; deemed insignificant by Ferelden’s cartographers. 

The sun had vanished without ceremony; ducking from sight behind the Frostbacks. Flora set her eyes on the water, watching the lantern-light ripple. 

“Alistair,” she said, very quietly.

_ This is it, _he thought; his stomach no longer steady.

“Yes.” 

“What do you think - _ did _ you think - ” Flora did not know what tense to use, and ploughed on regardless. “About Duncan and… and me?” 

_ What even were we, anyway? Something fleeting and impermanent. _

_ Something that could never last. Frost at dawn, a cobweb on a window-pane. _

_ A body in the water. _

Alistair was silent for several long moments, his eyes focused on something not tangible. Flora felt her heart pulling downwards like a lead anchor.

“No one thinks that it was a _ good _ thing,” she said, suddenly despondent. “My general-spirit told me off for it. Morrigan made fun. The other Wardens called me a- a bedwarmer. No one approved.” 

Alistair had spent more hours than he would care to admit brooding over the same question. He had ruminated over every possible answer; turning them over and taking them apart, dissecting each moment he witnessed between his sister-warden and their commander. Eventually he decided that his mind was playing tricks on him: a passing glance became a lingering stare, a casual hand a caress. 

Now, in the half-light, with Flora’s pale eyes set unblinking on him, Alistair realised that the answer was in fact a simple one. He met her anxious stare, and spoke. 

“Duncan had a hard life ,” he said, honestly. “He didn’t want to be a Warden, and he certainly never wanted to lead them. So much time spent amongst foulness, death and decay over the years, his mind grew corrupted and… and his body was rotting from the inside out. And then you came, and you brought some - some _ light _ to his life. To the last and darkest part of it. He seemed more at peace with the world in those last few weeks.” 

Flora released a long breath that she had not even realised she was holding. Her eyes felt hot and then the warmth spilled down her cheeks. Hastily she turned again, groping for the railing and grateful for the cover of night. Then she felt movement in the dark beside her; iron-bound muscle rose like a mountain shaped by the Maker’s hand. An arm bent itself around Flora’s shoulders, careful not to settle its full weight on her. 

“Duncan meant a great deal to me.” Alistair’s voice drifted above her head; low and earnest. “And you made him happy, for a time. I’m- I’m grateful for it. That he got to experience something like that before the end. Something beautiful.” 

Alistair heard her sniffle and offered up the edge of his sleeve; not wanting to impose on this rare display of grief from his determinedly stoic-faced companion. Flora wiped her running nose, half-wondering why tears tasted like the sea. She felt Alistair’s fingers tighten on her arm; his breath slid warm and frustrated on her neck. He wanted to embrace her but was unsure if it was appropriate: a ghost of Duncan’s name still hung in the air between them. 

Flora made the decision by turning her face into his armpit. Alistair’s other arm found her waist and he drew her against him, astonished at how the starkly different dimensions of Flora’s body fit so precisely into his own. The chill of her glacial stare and the marble of her skin was illusory. In his arms, she was warm and pliant to the touch; not a statue carved by ancient hand, just a girl mourning her first infatuation. 

Dusk was deepening into night: dark veins crept through the sky and leeched the last remnants of daylight. A ghost of a moon had appeared overhead, cloaked demurely in a veil of cloud. 

Ducking to close the distance Alistair rested his chin on the top of Flora’s head, the curve of her skull beneath his jaw. He inhaled the scent of her: plain soap and sweat and the faint salt-tang residue of her mending. His heart felt as though it had swollen to twice its usual size; hurling itself against the constraints of his ribs. In that moment, he wanted her so badly that it made him dizzy. 

Since childhood, Flora had been aware that she possessed an extraordinary face. As she grew into adolescence, the covetous stares of others followed her like her own shadow. Eventually, their desire faded into the background like the chatter of birds: ever-present and easily ignored. She had a shield that would protect her from unwanted advances; their words went unheeded. 

At Ostagar, Duncan had admired her with a poetic eloquence that Flora had not always been able to understand. Cailan’s lust was as unsubtle as a dwarven warhammer. Yet Alistair had deliberately averted his eyes from her; built up a barrier of armour and slept with his back to her face. At the time, she had been intrigued by his distaste. Now, she wanted the truth. 

“Do _ you _ think I’m beautiful?” she asked, curious.

The question was directed to Alistair’s armpit; the words muffled by the weave of his shirt. 

If his chin had not been resting on Flora’s head, Alistair’s jaw would have dropped. 

“By Andraste, Flora,” he said, incredulous. “The Maker broke the mould after he made you. You’re incomparable.”

His hands rose to cradle the sides of Flora’s face, calloused fingers seeking the rich body of her hair. He could feel the high plane of her cheek beneath his thumb; the skin was still damp. Her eyelashes were stuck together like the fronds of a plant, but she was no longer tearful. Alistair thought that his hand looked vast and meaty against the flawless architecture of his sister-warden’s features: the skin laid over artful bone. He wanted to let her hair down from its knotted band and spill it like wine beneath him.

“You’re everywhere I look,” he continued low and urgent, wanting the words out in the air, “even when I’m not looking at you.” 

The full pink curve of her mouth was an invitation. Then: 

_ “Grey Wardens, yeh cabins are ready!” _

A member of the crew had materialised from nowhere. It was the Tranquil captain’s second; a man with a prodigious beard and a glass eye that canted left. 

Alistair fought the urge to hurl the interruption overboard. 

“Cabins?” he repeated, heart sinking as the space between himself and his sister-warden expanded once again. 

Flora looked as though she had been rudely awoken from a dream, her mouth half-open and her eyes glassy. 

The sailor gave a grunt of assent. 

“Aye. It’s a great honour for us to be ferryin’ members of such an esteemed an’ _ venerable _military order.” 

He then surveyed them both dubiously: neither matched his imagined model of a Grey Warden. They looked more adolescents caught in the act than a pair of hardy warriors. 

“I thought you’d be a bit more... grizzled,” the man added with Bannorner bluntness. “Eh, but what am I to know? Anyway, your cabin is on the larboard side- ” his eyes were on Alistair, “third down. A bath’s been prepared. Must need it after all that _ fightin’ _.” 

The sailor paused, hoping that Alistair would disclose some more details about what had happened in the Circle. 

Alistair was in no mood for reminiscing: he had no idea what _ larboard _meant, his battered chest ached as though clamped in a vice, and he had been rudely interrupted at a crucial moment.

“And as for you, lassie - I mean, my lady-Warden,” the sailor continued, when it became obvious that no particulars would be forthcoming. “Your quarters are in the stern. You’ll be well-guarded: the captain’s set his most trusted to watch your door, and the Instructor Wynne will take the second berth.” 

Flora was dismayed at the prospect of parting from her companion, and _ appalled _ by the news that she would be sharing a cabin _ with the teacher. _She also did not understand why she alone was to be placed under guard- there were a half-dozen mages more dangerous than she on board. 

“Rest assured, noone will place a finger on yeh,” added the sailor, solemn behind the copious beard. “Yeh can bathe in peace.” 

Flora wondered if it was worth explaining that she had no qualms about being on a ship filled with men, and that she had been outnumbered a hundred to one by them at Ostagar. A far more daunting prospect was sharing a cabin with the only other woman on board: the severe and hawk-eyed senior instructor. 

The captain’s second looked ready to interrogate Alistair further and so they parted reluctantly; unspoken words and unfinished business hanging in the chill night air between them. 

“Perhaps you’ll come out in the morning and be _ educated, _ my dear _ ,” _Alistair said lightly, aware of the sailor’s curious stare. 

Flora looked even more mutinous: she did not want an education. 

The last she saw of her brother-warden before he vanished - _ not _towards the larboard side - was the crown of his head atop the broad-beam of his shoulders; gilded by lantern-light. She was proud to see that, despite the gentle sway of the boards beneath his feet, Alistair walked without faltering.

The ship’s decking was also cast in metallic hue: silvered by a moon that had discarded her veils of cloud and emerged in full, milky brilliance. Flora followed the captain’s second towards the stern, grateful that he felt no need to continue a conversation with her. He was a Bannorn man and she was a northerner: each had the measure of the other. 

Two patrolling Templars passed them en route. Despite the fact that Flora was part of the Grey Warden and the Chantry militia -_ in theory _ \- had no right to lay hand on her, it was easy to believe otherwise when confronted with their faceless helms and flecked swords. Flora flinched and averted her eyes skyward, grateful that they spared her only a brief and wary glance. She then wondered where Morrigan was, and hoped that she was not getting into trouble. 

“My lady-Warden.” 

They had arrived at a door set into the stern, flanked by lanterns and panels of opaque glass. Two sailors, already bored of guard duty, were dealing cards on an upended barrel. They looked at Flora, gave her the customary swift appraisal, and then returned to their game.

“If one of ‘em even peeks in yer window,” the bearded second said, bluntly. “You’ve permission to roast ‘em alive, my lady. With your magic._ ” _

Flora gave a half-hearted grunt of acknowledgement, lacking the will to explain her limitations. She hoped fervently that she would enter to find Instructor Wynne snoring on her bunk. After all, she was _ old, _and didn’t old people sleep most of the time, anyway? 

** _Ha! You know better than that._ **

Flora sighed: she did. Herring had more grey-hairs than the usual village due to her ability to mend wounds and cure illness. Their elders worked until incapable of standing; then, they made hooks or mended nets until they were incapable of seeing. Only then would they be permitted to rest. 

In an attempt to delay the moment of entry, she turned to her escort and fixed him with her effortless stare. He floundered momentarily like a live butterfly pinned to a board, then regained his composure. 

“My lady?”

Flora ignored an address that she perceived as sarcastic.

“What’s the biggest fish you’ve ever caught on here?” she asked, hoping that this would spark a lengthy conversation. 

The sailor’s lip curled; though he managed to bite back the full sneer. 

“This isn’t a _ fishing boat,” _ he replied, contemptuous. “This is a _ passenger vessel. _Its purpose to ferry the First Enchanter and his guests to whither he wishes.” 

Flora’s nostrils flared at such disdain. 

“The Waking Sea would smash this ‘_ passenger vessel’ _ into _ matchsticks _ . The Hag’s Teeth would chew it to _ pieces _.” 

“Only madmen sail the Waking Sea,” retorted the bearded mate. “Madmen and northerners. Same thing.”

A Herring native would have swung for the sailor: or knocked one of the sitting card players from his chair and used it as an improvised club. Flora took a deep and anchoring breath, gathering up her dignity like a trailing fishing net. 

“Good night,” she said, rigidly polite. “Thank you for showin’ me to the cabin.”

_ I hope an albatross steals your sea legs while you sleep, _ she added under her breath, turning away. _I hope you fall out of your hammock and get a bruise in an inconvenient place. _

The frame was warped and the door required some effort to shift. It yielded after a moment to reveal a cabin of medium size, wood-panelled and rustic in decor. Three windows were set at an angle on the far wall, following the sloping line of the ship’s stern. A table and four chairs were placed in the cabin’s centre, flanked by two berths draped in red tartan. 

It was not a cabin in frequent use: the furnishings smelt as though they had been kept at the bottom of a damp drawer for months, and cobwebs made complex patterns across the leaded glass. It was lit by a blend of moonlight and lamp-light: silver and gold dappled the floorboards. It had been some time since the ship last set sail. 

To Flora’s dismay, the instructor was not asleep. Wynne was sitting on one berth, straight backed and alert, her eyes trained on the door. It seemed as though she had been waiting for Flora to arrive. Still, the elder mage said nothing as Flora - with a heavy heart - shut the door behind her, the light shifting. 

Wynne, sensing that perhaps her young counterpart was on the verge of bolting, let her hand rest on a stack of slim leather tomes.

“I’ve been educating myself on the four previous Blights,” she said, her words slicing the silence. “I admit, it’s a part of history that I’ve never been particularly interested in. Of course, now that the past has become the present once again, I must compensate for my ignorance.” 

Flora did not like books, and she did not like history. She gave a grunt, noticing that what little baggage she owned had been placed on the opposite berth. She took off her boots - they were stained from something vile and organic she had stepped in at the Circle - and wandered towards the window.

“I’ve also been reading the old Warden archives, or those that are permitted to the uninitiated,” the senior instructor continued, determined to gain a more substantial response. “The Darkspawn are not an enemy I’m familiar with, though I wager they burn when set aflame as anything else would.”

Flora had never set anything aflame without the use of flint and tinder. She watched her gilded breath cloud the window, obscuring the world beyond the cabin.

“Hm,” she offered vaguely, fingertip tracing a circle over the misted glass. 

Something then occurred to her; she glanced over her shoulder.

“Do they say how to kill an Archdemon?” 

“The Archdemon Andoral was killed after rabid griffons ravaged its flesh,” Wynne replied, her hand moving across the cover of the tome. “Warden Garahel leapt from the highest spire in Ayesleigh and drove his sword into the beast’s neck.”

Flora could not remember seeing any rabid griffons at Ostagar. She wondered how Cailan and Duncan had planned to kill the Archdemon without them. 

“Well, we ain’t got any,” she said at last, solemnly. “We have a priestess. A Witch of the Wilds. And a Qunari.” 

_ And my spirits, _ she added internally, _ though I’m not telling you about them. _

Wynne drew in a deep breath; placing the book to one side with measured deliberateness. If Flora had looked at the senior instructor in that moment, she might have glimpsed the apprehension scored into the older woman’s face. Flora, however, was now busy adding a scowl and angry eyebrows to her circle on the glass. 

“According to precedent,” the mage continued, composing herself. “The elves and dwarves too are sworn by ancient duty to provide aid when called upon. That is not an inconsiderable number of troops at your disposal. If they all agree to come.” 

The girl at the window turned to look at her, the iron-grey stare cool and appraising. Wynne felt the small hairs on the back of her neck rise: her heart leapt forward, startled. There was a face behind Flora’s face: one that was not tangible, but more a memory of something ancestral: a bloodline that had conquered lands and commanded legions. 

“THEY WILL COME,” Flora declared flatly, then turned back to her sketch and drew a moustache. 

“Anyway,” she added a moment later, speaking more to herself than to Wynne. “In that case. I’d just go and recruit from Herring. _ Then _ the Archdemon would wish it had stayed underground.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Grey Wardens were once a respected and feared paramilitary order in Thedas, but the Warden and Alistair are basically just a couple of millennials running around the woods trying not to get eaten by Darkspawn. Haha! I read that description on Tumblr and honestly that is EXACTLY the vibe I’m going for here XD 
> 
> Anyway, I loved writing this chapter! Flora gets a little bit of closure with Alistair re Duncan, and vice versa, he starts confessing his feelings.... and then, well, I do love a good interruption :P 
> 
> Also, as a history lecturer, I LOVE it when Flora is like I HATE BOOKS I HATE HISTORY XD She’s so much fun to write haha


	80. Seeking Out Alistair

The ship sailed southwards, straight as a die. Calenhad had no tide nor current to divert its path; no malevolent wind tugged at the sails to draw it off course. The lake was placid in temperament; too old to provide youthful excitement for those who sailed its waters. Nor did it bear an ancient grudge like its tempestuous cousin to the north. The Circle ship - nameless for a reason long since lost - made good time in such favourable conditions. Overhead, a full-bellied moon neared it’s apex. It silvered the brittle edges of the waves and cast an icy sheen across the ship’s decking; as if the boards were covered in winter frost. 

Fingers of moonlight punctuated the stern cabin, angling through the three leaded windows. They illuminated the mid-sized chamber and its occupants: the elder mage and the younger, and their respective baggage. Flora’s pack lay on its side on her berth, the meagre contents spilling across the blanket. She owned neither comb nor spare clothing: the pack contained a few odd socks and her water-stained travel cape. Wynne’s baggage seemed to contain books and little else.

A bathtub had been brought in by two labouring servants, the water exhaling its heat into the air. Wynne had declined - she had used the superior facilities in the Circle prior to their departure - and so Flora had reluctantly submitted to her  _ third  _ wash of the week. She was not happy about this in the slightest; but did not want to see the servants’ efforts wasted. Added incentive was the fact that a bath would delay any attempted  _ educating:  _ books and water did not mix well.

Flora watched skeins of hair float near the two pink islands of her knees. To her relief, the water was plain and unscented: she had been given only a bar of salted tallow soap to augment her bathing. She had scrubbed herself half-heartedly, rinsed her hair and - teeth gritted - forced her fingers through it from root to end. Although the water was now cooling, she did not want to get out: the  _ books  _ were still resting on the berth, and the senior instructor did not appear at all sleepy.

Her knee gave a throb and Flora responded with a resentful stare. The weak joint did not look any different from its twin: the damage lay beneath the skin. 

_ Should I try and fix it again? Can I fix it?  _

** _You would need to break the bone first. _ **

Flora shuddered, abandoning the idea. 

Pushing a wet strand of hair from her eyes, she turned her attention back to Wynne. The senior instructor - finally - appeared as though she were getting ready for bed. She had wrapped herself in a dressing robe and released the rigid topknot of her bun. Still, even as the mage readied herself for sleep, she was reading: a book lay propped open on the blanket. A lantern had been relocated to spill its light across the parchment. 

Flora slid down several inches in the cooling water, inhaling the salty residue of the tallow. She could not understand the Circle’s obsession with  _ books:  _ they owned thousands of them, far more than should be necessary. 

“Would you like to borrow the Purley? His account of the Fourth Blight seems to be the most comprehensive.” 

Wynne gestured a slender hand towards one particular tome. 

“No,” said Flora. 

The mage looked at her. 

Flora clarified: “Can’t read.” 

The senior instructor inhaled sharply. A frown deepened the lattice of lines across her face. 

“But you were at Kinloch Hold for three years - no,  _ four.”  _

Flora offered an ambiguous grunt in response, astonished at how clean her toenails appeared after their third wash of the week.

“We failed you as we failed Jowan,” Wynne murmured, beneath her breath. Her next words were barely audible and for her benefit alone, “and as  _ I _ failed Aneirin.”

She offered no further explanation, pressing her lips together so tightly that they flattened into a pale line. A shadow fell over her face; one that the lantern nearby could not banish. 

Flora did not know who Aneirin was. She pushed herself upright in the bathtub and began to gather the sodden mass of her hair, wringing out the plum-dark ropes. The sound of the water roused the old mage from the well of memory and she sat up a little straighter.

“Anyway, it won’t happen again.” 

Wynne paused, took a breath and then spoke the words that had been hovering on her tongue since the ship’s sails had been unfurled. 

“Child, tell me about your spirits.” 

The last person to ask Flora that question had been Duncan; and it had taken him no small amount of charm and persuasion to gain even the sliver of an answer. She shot Wynne a look of beady-eyed disapproval over the rim of the bath; so naked in her suspicion that the teacher had to suppress a smile. 

Still, Wynne did not give up easily:

“Back in the Tower, you mentioned  _ spirits _ in the plural. Is there more than one that aids you?” 

Flora continued to methodically wring out her hair: it seemed to have soaked up half of the bath. 

Wynne sensed a mutinous silence. She changed tactic: shifting the position of the lantern so the mellow glow fell across the chamber. 

“Tell me about the first ailment that you healed.” 

An answer emerged thoughtless from Flora’s throat: “A Mabari dog with a broken rib.”

Her reply hung between them: Flora frowned as though she could see the words writ in the air. Although they had come from  _ her own  _ mouth, it was the recollection of a stranger: such a memory did not exist in Flora’s mind. Mabari hounds were the companions of the nobility. Prized for their strength and intelligence, their lineage was as selective as that of their highborn owners. They dwelt in the castles and manors of Ferelden’s wealthiest, not in uncharted fishing villages. Flora had never seen a Mabari until Ostagar, where King Cailan had kept a pack of two dozen. 

“It weren’t a Mabari,” she corrected, feeling the small hairs lift from the damp skin of her arm. “I… I don’t know why I said that. It was a granny with Frostcough.” 

She also did not understand why she was shivering. The bathwater was cooling, but not cold enough to warrant such a reaction. Fortunately, Wynne seemed satisfied enough with her answer and did not press her for further detail. The elder mage had decided that it was too late for further interrogation; she was sliding the last of her books back into her satchel. 

_ Why did I say a Mabari? I ain’t never been within arms’ reach of a Mabari. _

Her spirits offered no explanation: Compassion exhaled a wistful sigh. 

Flora decided that the week’s frequent bathing had muddled her mind: it was  _ unnatural  _ for the body to be immersed in water so repeatedly. Shoving wet masses of hair unceremoniously over her shoulders, she rose to her feet, the bathwater streaming from her in ribbons. 

The elder mage paused, her hand resting flat on a slim and well-thumbed tome. A faded floral motif was carved into the length of the spine. It was no academic text, but a translation of the  _ Rose of Orlais;  _ a popular fable of an ill-fated romance between a  _ comtesse  _ and a  _ chevalier.  _

“You’re a very pretty girl,” she said evenly as Flora wandered naked and aimless about the cabin in search of something to wear. “Really, I ought to have accompanied you to Ostagar after you were conscripted. It would have been appropriate for several reasons.” 

Flora made another ambiguous sound. She did not have a change of fresh clothing and yet it did not seem right to put on the sweaty, battle-stained garb that she had worn in the Circle. 

“Borrow a nightgown of mine if you’ve none,” the senior enchanter suggested, after Flora had made a third fruitless circuit of the cabin. “I packed a surplus.”

It took her a few moments to excavate the garment from beneath the books and rolls of parchment. Flora accepted the nightgown, pulling it without ceremony over her sodden head.

“No,” Wynne continued, picking up the thread of her previous thought. “After Jowan - well. It was such a dreadful shock. And in the midst of all the turmoil, you were whisked off by the Warden-Commander. It was all so  _ sudden.” _

There was no mirror in the ship’s cabin, but Flora had never bothered to watch her reflection when wrangling with her hair. She coaxed the wet mass into an untidy, minimal-effort braid; the fabric of the nightshirt clinging to her shoulders as it soaked up the water. 

“And Duncan used to have a rather  _ infamous _ reputation in our Circle,” Wynne continued drily, loosening her braid and feeling for a brush. “And elsewhere, if the stories are true. Though that was some time ago. Regardless, I should have accompanied you.” 

Flora had a vague sense that Wynne was alluding to something salacious. She wanted very much for the senior enchanter to  _ stop talking  _ \- she did  _ not  _ want to discuss Duncan with Wynne - and began to craft an excuse for a swift departure. 

She caught a glimpse of herself in the lower-left pane of the window: the warped glass had stretched her face to disconcerting proportions. Beyond, the lakewater stretched like a swathe of spilled ink; the shore obscured by the darkness. Yet another lantern flared brightly and then died, the cheap tallow candle at its heart spent. 

The cabin was growing dim and Wynne had finished combing out the remnants of her bun. Flora wondered how old the senior enchanter was: her hair was as white as lambswool, but beyond the fine lattice of wrinkles the features still had a vestige of youth. Although she could not count, Flora had a vague idea of what  _ forty, fifty, sixty  _ meant, and how it appeared. She had never asked Duncan his age: the years would have taken less of a toll than the taint propagated through his blood.

“I have to go.” 

Wynne, about to ease herself down on her berth, looked at her. Flora then unveiled the excuse that had taken her half a second to concoct. 

“My spirits have instructed me to inspect this ship for leaks,” she said vaguely, eyes drifting towards the door.

** _WE HAVE NOT! _ **

The senior instructor was openly sceptical, her lips pursing in the shadow. Flora was not a good liar, in spite of her indecipherable face. She put no effort into concocting her falsehoods, and seemed bored of them before they had even emerged. 

“Hm!” 

“You don’t want to wake up at the bottom of the lake, do you?” Flora added, barely listening to herself as she sidled across the floorboards. The cold iron of the handle in her hand felt like victory: she curled her fingers and pulled. 

“I know where you’re going - I was once that young mage sneaking out to visit a boy!”

Wynne’s voice followed Flora through the door; Flora shut it hastily behind her and exhaled. The cold air met her face like a gentle slap. 

** _Using us as an excuse, _ ** grumbled her general, irritably.  ** _Akin to blasphemy. _ **

_ Mm.  _

One of the crewmen set to guard her had vanished; the other had fallen asleep facedown in his cards. Flora sidled past - although she reasoned that she had no reason to  _ sneak,  _ she was no prisoner - and padded barefoot across the boards. The wind pushed the nightgown back against her body, the plain fabric snapping over the skin. Overhead, the sails were plump with air; the ship was making good time. Sailing at night was no issue on a lake: there were no significant waves to contend with, nor reefs to run aground on. 

A short flight of steps connected the ship’s stern to the main level. Flora yielded to a steward bearing a precariously balanced tray; letting him climb up before she descended. The tray was crowded with cups and brewing-pots: the mages of the Circle inhaled tea as though it were air. Flora had never grown to like the herbal beverage: it tasted like trampled grass and made her tongue curl at the edges. 

_ Why do I feel like I’m in the Circle, sneaking out after curfew?  _

The answer came a moment later in the form of two patrolling Templars. The steel beat of their footsteps heralded their arrival: a sound that Flora knew well from echoing Circle corridors. She hesitated beside the ship’s rail: not wanting to meet them in the cramped confine of the larboard passage. 

They emerged from the doorway a few moments later, a matched pair of steel men. Their helms hid their faces: their armour left no inch of skin exposed. The branding of the inverted sword stood out against their breastplates. 

Flora stayed very still; one hand resting on the rail. She could feel the wet length of her braid soaking the fabric between her shoulder blades.

The Templars saw her, and stopped. One glanced at the other then spoke; voice repeating within the steel chamber of his helm. 

“What business has you wandering about unsupervised, mage?” 

The use of a generic address was intended to belittle her: they knew full-well who she was. 

Flora was not sure of the best course of action: to divert their question with a terse  _ ‘my own’,  _ to offer the same ridiculous excuse she had presented to Wynne, or to protest that - as a recruit of the Grey Wardens - she was no longer under their jurisdiction. She could not decide which response to offer and so she gave none: letting her eyes drift above their helms as though bored. Her heart beat a soldier’s march in her chest.

The silence irritated them. The shorter Templar glanced at the other, then spoke with an ominous undercurrent. 

“I suggest that you go back to your assigned quarters.” 

Flora had no intention of returning to the cabin. She was certain that sharing a room with an unreasonable amount of books would lead to either indigestion, or  _ accidental education via osmosis. _ Neither was a desirable outcome. 

The Templars were not happy: they bristled beneath their armour. The shorter one spoke again, the words echoing from the mouthpiece of his helm. 

“If we arrest you, you’ll be wishing that you stayed in your quarters.” 

_ “If,” _ Flora said. 

They looked at her and she stared back at them, her irises cold and colourless. 

Then, without a word, they continued their patrol; passing her as though she did not exist. Flora watched them cross the deck, the steel of their shoulders catching in the moonlight. She was not entirely sure  _ why _ they had abandoned their interrogation, but she was relieved to avoid further confrontation. She hoped that Morrigan - wherever she was - had resisted the opportunity to be antagonistic. 

The larboard passage lay on the right-hand of the ship; the side that would flank the port when the anchor was dropped. A small door prevented the wind from whining down its length; it was half-heartedly lit by a lantern hanging from a midpoint beam. Two servants clad in Circle livery were carrying the remnants of a bath between them, the metal rim of the tub colliding with the walls as they shuffled forwards. The corridor was too narrow for all three of them to pass; Flora waited until they had emerged onto the deck, then ducked through the doorway. 

The passage housed ten cabins, five matched pairs. Flora had no idea which locked and unassuming door had been assigned to Alistair. Determination flooded her veins: she was  _ on a mission,  _ she had defied teachers and Templars alike to seek out her brother-warden and she would not fall at this final hurdle. Flora could feel his presence like a thread of spider’s silk: a line that stretched between herself and him. Even if she had not known that his cabin was on the larboard side, she would have  _ known.  _

She took care as she walked, her bare feet a whisper against the wood. The last thing that she wanted was for  _ First Enchanter Irving!  _ to emerge unexpectedly from a doorway and begin asking her questions. 

This was such a traumatic prospect that Flora held her breath as she walked, not wanting the luminescence of her exhalation to give her away. It was only visible in darkness, but the lantern overhead had begun to flicker its last. 

_ This one,  _ she thought, slowing beside the third door to the left. Hoping that her knock would not summon half of the corridor, she raised her fist and tapped her knuckles gently against the wood. 

_ What will I do if it’s not Alistair’s cabin?  _

_ What if… the First Enchanter answers it? And thinks I came to visit him?  _

Flora was even more horrified by this possibility. She hesitated before knocking again, doubting her earlier certainty.

_ Maybe I’m not so sure. Maybe I don’t ‘know’ where Alistair is. I don’t understand how this blood-tie works.  _

The door opened as she hovered before it. Alistair stood framed in the opening, his handsome and broad-shouldered bulk blocking out much of the light from the cabin behind. Despite the shadow scored beneath his eyes, he could have stepped straight from Ancient Tevene lore: the young adventurer resting before resuming his trials. Wet tawny hair stuck up like the bristles of a hedgehog: the bath had recently departed his quarters. 

A spontaneous smile cut through the weariness as he saw her hovering in the passage.

“Flora,” Alistair said, the word warm on his tongue. “Flo. I thought I wouldn’t see you until morning.” 

He stepped back, keeping the door at bay with an arm. 

Flora, relieved that she had not summoned First Enchanter Irving, followed him inside the cabin. It was smaller than the one that she had been assigned to share with Wynne; crowded with a narrow berth and a chest of drawers that was missing half its contents. It had no window due to its location on the flank of the hull. Alistair had piled his baggage and armour in a stack beside the door, his sword lay unceremoniously beneath the bunk. A waning lantern sat on the chest; only a half-inch of wax candle remained. 

The guttering light fell on Flora and lit up her borrowed nightgown: Alistair’s smile broadened to a grin as he eyed the ruffles at the neck and wrists.

“This looks like something that my great-aunt might wear, my dear,” he observed, fingering a pleated sleeve. “If I had one, that is. I don’t remember this item from your wardrobe.”

“The teacher loaned it to me,” Flora replied, reaching over her shoulder to pull her braid from her skin. The damp rope of her hair clung stubbornly to the linen; which then adhered itself to her shoulder blades. “You can see through it when it’s wet.” 

“Is that a promise?” he asked, soft and amused. 

Flora smiled at him: the inconstant candlelight loaned a fleeting warmth to her face. 

Despite the teasing words there was no humour in Alistair’s expression as he closed the door, his eyes fixed on her with unblinking purpose. Flora could feel his stare like brazier heat on her skin: the intensity of raw and uncultivated flame. Fascinated, she felt her own body respond to it: a consensual yielding. He looked at her for a long moment and then returned his attention to the door, searching it with new urgency. 

Flora realised that he was looking for a lock or a bolt of some sort. There was none; the Templars would never grant mages the privilege of lockable quarters.

“The chest,” she suggested with a whisper and unnecessary pointed finger, lowering her voice as an idle conversation slid beneath the door.

The chest was squat and hewn from oak: even with half of its drawers missing, it would take two people to manoeuvre. Naturally, it posed no challenge to Flora’s brawny brother-warden. Encompassed by his reach it rose effortlessly into the air, three steps, and was deposited before the door. It seemed a solid enough barrier and so Alistair turned back to her with his heart driving an urgent rhythm against his chest. 

Flora was sitting on the slender breadth of his bunk, her pale eyes set unblinking on him. The nightgown cleaved to her body like poured milk; the cut demure but the fabric clinging. She reached out a hand towards him without speaking: they were beyond words. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted Flora to be suspicious of Wynne - a TEACHER! - since she’s had such a bad experience with education in the Circle. Even though Wynne is more approachable and friendly then Morrigan and Sten, Flora is more used to Morrigan’s sharp tongue and Sten’s silence.
> 
> I love Flora’s Laconic response to the Templars - “if”! It’s based off a famous response given by the Spartans to the threats of an invading king. 
> 
> Larboard is the traditional word for port, as in the side of a ship that would be alongside the port.
> 
> Haha at Wynne saying that she was once the young mage sneaking off to visit boys :P she’s not an idiot! And she’s not lying there either, she’d had a baby in the Circle by the time she was Flora’s age.


	81. Alistair’s Rose

Like the coat of some exotic cat; the cabin interior was cast in dappled patches of light and shadow. The moon slid in slender fingers beneath the ill-fitting door, while the guttering candle flickered an inconstant aura. Lake Calenhad was so placid below them that the ship could have been gliding south through undisturbed air; the water caressed the hull with gentle familiarity. A northerly wind breathed life into the sail, as though encouraging them to leave its domain. 

Little disturbed the reverent silence, scholars made peaceful neighbours. Footsteps on the deck overhead gave the cabin a subterranean feel: a wooden hollow nestled in a bank of earth. 

Now it seemed that nothing could delay the inevitable. Flora had escaped the instructor’s interrogation and avoided Templar imprisonment; she had determinedly navigated the Circle ship under cover of darkness to seek out her brother-warden’s company. There was no lock to the door, but Alistair had positioned a sturdy oak chest between them and the rest of the world. He hoped fervently that Duncan’s ghost would leave them be: that the shade of their dead commander would not lurk in the corner, watching them with dark and thoughtful eyes. 

Yet even if he was, it would not have stopped Alistair. His need was more potent than guilt or battle-weariness, the exhaustion from earlier replaced with a deep-rooted urgency. He had to restrain himself from crossing the span of the cabin in three impatient steps: as much as he wanted to join her, he also wanted to savour the sight of her waiting expectant on the bunk. The young man was certain that he would never again see a sight comparable to his sister-warden: sculpted artistry clad in antiquated linen and woollen socks. In the threadbare gloom of the cabin the light found her face and she was resplendent.

Alistair found himself in motion: his body had rebelled at the delay. He crossed the floorboards in a heartbeat, sinking before Flora like a devotee in supplication. His hands settled on her hips, palms pressing the fabric; he could feel the heat of her skin through the linen. She rested her slender arms on his shoulders, fingers curling against the collar of his shirt. 

Leaning forward, Alistair’s lips found her neck: pressing a kiss below her ear. Her skin was warm, and damp where the wet hair had clung to it. He heard Flora’s breath catch in her throat and the sound sent a rush of blood southwards, rapid enough to leave him dizzy. Wanting to hear her again, he kissed the length of her neck with lingering purpose; reluctant to let his lips stray far from the skin. He could feel her shivering within her nightgown, small breasts shuddering beneath the linen as her breath came quick and shallow. He made no attempt to hide his own arousal: given its size and prominence, it would have been a futile endeavour anyway. His mouth explored Flora’s throat in slow reverence, tongue measuring the heady throb of her pulse. She let out a small animal sound beside his ear, fingers clenching into his shoulders as though he were already moving within her. 

A red veil descended over Alistair’s world as the civilised shell of his mind split in two. In that moment he would not have been able to recall his own name if questioned. A swift, ungentle motion later and Flora was supine on the bunk beneath him, her arms wound around his neck. He grasped a fistful of fabric and hauled the nightgown up around her thighs; she was wrestling the buttons of his shirt free. 

“Eh,” she said suddenly, her voice caught somewhere between dazedness and dismay. “Wha- ?”

Later, Alistair would be ashamed by the length of time it took for him to come to his senses; to uncurl his fingers and lift himself off her. The crimson veil dissipated and the cabin came back into focus: the lantern at a guttering ebb. He felt like a Mabari leashed in sight of a rabbit, the blood surging hot and rampant through his veins. 

Flora looked freshly bedded, her hair an eruption and her nightgown in disarray. Her cheeks were still flushed from his attentions but her eyes were wide and distraught, and fixed to the south of his shoulder. Alistair looked down, and saw the tail of a dark and linear bruise protruding beyond the border of his collar. It was a souvenir of the ill-fitting breastplate he had borrowed from the Templars: one of several.

She reached out to push the shirt aside, her eyes following the bruise as it cut a swathe across the muscle. Her mouth turned down at the corners as the loosened fabric also revealed a mesh of angry violet, where the chainmail had been compacted into the skin. 

Before everything else, Flora was a mender. She shot him a swift and appalled glance, unbuttoning the remainder of the shirt. 

“It’s nothing, Flora,” he said, voice hoarse from the ebb of desire. 

Her pale eyes darted to his once again, then returned to the battered terrain of his chest. His collarbone was mottled blue and black; the line of his breastplate etched in red where it had dug in. Flora drew in an unsteady inhalation, for once, not distracted by the rounded delineation of muscle. 

“You should’ve  _ said somethin’,” _ she replied in a small voice, head bowed to his collarbone. The air near her face was suddenly gilded: she had exhaled against his skin, working the aether with her fingers.

Alistair heard the tremor in her words and was astonished: none of the marks had broken the skin. None were really substantial enough to be deemed  _ wounds.  _

“Flora,” he said softly to the top of her head, wondering if there was more to it than just some bruising. “Flo. It’s not serious.” 

She moved her lips to his shoulder, fingers following the line of the linear bruise. Alistair could feel her hand shaking against the muscle, her breath emerged unsteady. He watched her work her way across the breadth of his chest, then down the taut plane of his abdomen: in other circumstances it might have doubled as a caress, but Flora had now donned her mender’s mantle. 

“I should’ve been there to shield you,” she said to his armpit, the words muffled. “When you were fighting the Sloth demon in the Fade. That was my job:  _ Duncan gave it to me.” _

Alistair could remember Duncan’s words clearer than Duncan’s features. His commander had issued his final instruction at their last meeting in the mortal world.  _ your sister will shield you in battle and keep you safe. I want you to do the same for her when you’re not in battle. _

“Flo, these aren’t wounds from the battle - or at least, the demon didn’t give them to me.”

Flora looked up at him, her brow furrowed. Alistair realised that he had  _ not _ in fact grown used to her face and he most likely never would: that it still had the power to knock him from his feet like a rogue wave. 

“They’re from my  _ armour,”  _ he continued, following the curve of her ear with his fingertip. “A breastplate leaves marks, and worse ones if it’s not fitted properly. I borrowed it from the Templars, remember? You couldn’t have shielded me against this even if you had been there.” 

Flora had not known the toll charged by steel and iron for protection: after all, she had no need for armour

“Oh,” she breathed, the rigidity of her body waning. “Maybe you shouldn’t wear armour, then.”

Alistair laughed, the sound absorbed by the cabin’s wooden walls. His ribs no longer ached at sudden motion. 

“What, fight  _ naked? _ Like an Alamarri clansman?” 

He saw the corner of Flora’s mouth quirk upwards.

“No-oo. You could wear… a hat.” 

Her thumb traced the outline of a dappled bruise near his navel: the discolouration began to melt away as though diluted. Alistair drew in a deep lungful, summoning the disapproving insect stare of the Chantry Mother at the monastery in an effort to subdue his arousal. Although his sister-warden was mending him in her usual manner, the proximity of her mouth and fingers to his skin was an exquisite form of torture. He fixed his eyes on a knot of wood on the wall: a whorl that resembled a large and lopsided thumbprint. 

“Just a hat?”

“Mm.”

It was as though they were not in the midst of a national crisis, or the sole survivors of an infamous and ancient military order. They could have been any young man and woman in a tavern, or near a market stall; exchanging frivolous, tentatively flirtatious conversation. Alistair realised that he had not spared a thought for the Blight since she first crept barefoot into his quarters. 

He thrust this to the back of his mind; smoothing a rampant arc of Flora’s hair against her head. The mottled array of bruises and contusions had vanished, the flesh of his chest an unblemished swathe of olive, save for the scars that predated her. As she returned upright, he saw her grimace: face creasing in a momentary flinch of pain.

“Is your knee hurting?”

Flora nodded glumly. Seated hips touching on the bunk, they gazed down at the linen-covered bend in the limb. 

“Mm. It didn’t like all the steps.” 

The journey between the apprentice floor and the Circle kitchens was six flights: there had been a time when she had been able to run down and back up the stairs without pause. 

Alistair reached down and lifted the hem of the nightgown with newfound assurance. The linen pleated around her thigh as he pushed it up, revealing the sore pink dome of her knee. Flora had removed the strapping before her bath; the flesh below was visibly swollen. 

“Well, I’m sorry that I can’t return the favour and fix it, Flo,” he said quietly, his fingers settling into the hollow dents of the joint. “By Andraste, I wish I could. But this might help with the swelling.” 

Flora watched him work the sore flesh of her knee; admiring the broad span of his man’s hands,  _ blacksmith’s hands,  _ she  thought. Yet despite their size and palpable strength, his fingers moved against the knotted muscle with surprising tenderness. It was not merely an excuse to touch her, he was wholly focused on his task, head bowed and a faint furrow across his brow. The lantern on the chest gave a last writhe of flame and then expired. They were surrounded by a rich and earthy darkness.

“When I worked in Eamon’s stables,” Alistair’s voice slid from the shadow above Flora’s head, “I used to do this for the horses there. They’d come in limping after the knights rode them too hard. Some idiots used to gallop them over frozen mud, cobblestones…  if they went lame, they’d be sold and I- well, I didn’t want them to be sent off to a stranger. I knew them all.” 

Alistair’s words were low and distant; he did not revisit his childhood often. As he spoke he rotated his thumb slowly in the hollow of her knee, working out the knots in the muscle. The touch was confident: he knew what he was doing. 

“The horses must have missed you when you left Redcliffe and went to the- ” Flora hesitated, unsure whether it was  _ monosterly  _ or  _ monastery,  _ “- the Templar school.” 

Alistair half-smiled, hand now lying idle on her calf. 

“Probably the only ones that did miss me,” he said easily, face hidden in the shadow. “Ha.” 

Flora’s small hand found his face, her palm framing the uncompromising slant of his jaw. A dim aura, like a winter sunset, clung to her fingertips; remnants of her earlier mending. It gave off enough light for her stare to adhere to his: light grey meeting green flecked hazel. Alistair exhaled unsteadily, not taking his gaze from her face. 

“I have something for you,” he heard himself say. “Flora.” 

Simultaneously he wondered if Flora could feel the acceleration of his heart: if its quickening revealed itself as a rhythm against her skin. After all, earlier that day she had felt Irving’s pulse from a hundred feet below. 

Even if she could, Flora’s enigmatic face betrayed nothing. She let her hand drop from his cheek; the back of her palm rested on her thigh. Thus released, Alistair rose and crossed the cabin in three steps, to where he had piled his baggage in a haphazard mound. He retrieved his pack and reached an arm aside the sagging mouth, groping around with a feverish determination. 

At last he withdrew a leather tube that trailed a slender braided strap. Flora recognised it as a map-case, crafted in a cylindrical shape to house rolled-up parchment. She wondered, somewhat perplexed, if he were going to give her a map. She quite  _ liked _ maps - with their scribbled coastlines and ink-flecked forests - but she could not read them. She used the winds and the skies to angle herself when necessary, not compass and diagram. 

Her brother-warden did not open the map case, but turned his attention to the shadowed lantern. The wick in the expired candle still held a glow: Alistair used its last moments to light a second stick of wax. The new candle burned full and bright, it was beeswax, not cheap tallow. The wooden walls and floorboards soaked up the renewed light like bread. Flora, wanting to be helpful, exhaled: the air shone a little brighter. 

Turning back to her, Alistair narrowly avoided hitting his head on the rafters. The ship’s larboard cabin was not made for someone of his dimensions. Any chamber - regardless of size - seemed to shrink in his presence: he took up space like a sizable piece of furniture. 

Alistair seated himself on the berth beside Flora, and she noticed his shoulders move in a deep inhalation. The candlelight outlined the solemn profile of his face: the usual humour had been replaced with a steely, steadfast focus. He held the map case in both hands, strap dangling to the floorboards. They both looked at it for a long moment. The embroidered stitching was elaborate and not Ferelden in design.

Flora never saw the need to break a silence, and so Alistair spoke first. His voice was quiet enough that she needed to focus on the words lest they slip away on the draught. 

“Remember when we were in Lothering?” 

The town’s name pressed a cold finger of dread to Flora’s spine. She shivered: recalling the strange stagnation of its occupants: aware that they lay in the direct path of the Darkspawn horde and yet oddly reluctant to leave. The desperate crowded the pews and benches of the Chantry; the town itself ringed with a barricade that would keep out refugees but little else. Like a man out walking in his funeral shroud, the town seemed to exist halfway between life and death. 

_ I told them to leave,  _ she thought to herself, gloomily.  _ They knew they were in danger. _

_ Did anyone actually leave, though?  _

“I saw this growing near the Chantry,” Alistair continued softly, his fingers moving restlessly along the map-case’s length. “I was shocked that it had even survived this far into winter. It was the only one on the bush.” 

He then grimaced, realising that his disordered thoughts made little sense when voiced out loud. 

Flora, who was used to fragmented half-conversations within her own mind, admired the proud jut of his nose:  _ like the helm of a ship, _ she thought fondly. The lantern transmuted his hair into a tousled mass of gold and richened the warm olive of his complexion. She needed assistance from the Fade to manifest light, but her brother-warden radiated it by virtue of colouring and character; as though a brilliant, albeit oddly-shaped sun had set on the berth beside her.

“And I thought - well. I  _ knew _ the town was in danger of being overrun by Darkspawn,” he continued, his eyes fixed on the map-case as though he could see through the leather. “I couldn’t just leave it behind. The colour… it reminded me of your hair.” 

Alistair turned the top half of the map case, and it came loose in his hand. There was no roll of parchment inside, nor anything vaguely cartographical in nature. He withdrew a single-stemmed rose, torn at the root and moulting leaves. It was several days past its prime; the wine-red petals were blanched and curling at their edges. Any thorns had been clumsily scored off with a pocket-sized blade. 

“We’re at war,” he said, softly. “With a terrible and merciless enemy. We’re outnumbered and surrounded by foes on all sides. The Wardens have been murdered and the Darkspawn have taken the Wilds. I should be despairing, but…” 

Alistair trailed off: it seemed blasphemous to speak it out loud. 

_ I’ve never felt so at ease. So content.  _

_ The world makes sense to me now, though it should be chaos.  _

“Such a  _ rare and beautiful  _ thing amongst all the misery,” he said instead, returning his eyes to the rose and to the tangible. “It seems right that you should have it.” 

The words emerged with weight and purpose. Alistair did not dare to look at her: it was the closest he had come to 

shaping the maelstrom of joy and peculiar terror within his belly into coherency.

From the tail of his eye, he saw her hand move to lift the overblown bloom. 

“A flower for sweet Flora,” he said lightly, aware that she had not spoken a word since he had sat down. “I’m sorry - decomposing foliage isn’t a very nice early Satinalia present.” 

Yet when Alistair allowed himself a swift, sideways glance, he saw no evidence of decay on the bloom. The faded petals had richened to cherry-red, while small, sprouting leaves replaced those that had wilted. Flora looked down at the renewed cutting, mildly - but not overly - astonished. She had never pretended that she knew  _ how _ her magic worked; only that it did so in strange and inexplicable ways.

Alistair also stared at the rose, resting in the loose cage of Flora’s fingers. Each beat of his heart felt like a physical blow striking his ribs. In contrast to her flawless face, his sister-warden’s hand seemed deceptively ordinary: the fingers were small and the nails bitten; there were fawn-coloured freckles on her knuckles. 

“Thank you,” she said, and then looked up at him, her grey irises inscrutable as a Bannorn mist.

Alistair heard himself responding in a stumbling rush of words. He was not a bard and had no claim to eloquence; but he was determined to get them out so that they existed in reality and not merely in his heart.

“I like you, Flora,” he said, and repeated it.  _ “I like you,  _ and I… I think that I have for a while. But- ” here, he hesitated. “But - I think that you need more time. Duncan only died a- barely a month ago. And there  _ was _ something between you, wasn’t there?” 

Alistair looked at the rose in her palm, the rich crimson of the petals in stark contrast to her skin. He thought of roots, and the whitish-green curls of new growth in soil. 

“The  _ beginnings _ of something,” he continued, quietly. “And I don’t think you’re free from it, yet.” 

He remembered her words from the tavern in Lothering, during a conversation that had taken an unexpected tangent towards intimacy. 

_ I have been kissed,  _ she had said.

Flora was still looking at him. There was a rawness to her gaze that strengthened Alistair’s resolve; a wistfulness that confirmed his suspicions. 

“I’ll wait,” he said, his voice low and surprisingly steadfast. “I’ll wait for you, sweetheart. You can take as much time as you need to mourn him. I’ll be here.”

The fingers of Flora’s free hand found his: they knotted together and clenched in the familiar grasp. Her head tilted to the side; he was too tall for it to rest on his shoulder and so she leaned her brow against his upper arm. They sat together on the bunk, hand-in-hand in companionable silence. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha I had to slow things down between them - they don’t kiss properly until Satinalia (after the temple of sacred ashes journey) and they don’t sleep together until the return to Ostagar! And since I wanted to keep that original timeline in this version, I needed to find a way to turn the heat down a little :P
> 
> Also, Alistair isn’t wrong - despite the fact that there’s all this chemistry between them, she has a lot of unresolved emotions about Duncan. Shakespeare said it best: the course of true love never did run smooth! 
> 
> Merry Christmas!! Xxx


	82. The Fisherman And The Nilidh

The prevailing wind in Ferelden blew to the east: it hurtled down the slopes of the Frostbacks and swept across the Bannorn like an invading army. Many Ages prior the Alamarri had named the east wind  _ Lleu Sayer,  _ meaning  _ the charioteer;  _ it charged like a reckless youth around the hills and through the long, wending valleys.  _ Lleu Sayer  _ harassed the Waking Sea and scalped the western flanks of trees; it gnawed away at cliff faces and - over the centuries- changed the shape of the land itself. 

Sailors had another name for the westerly wind, especially those who navigated Ferelden’s unfriendliest coast. _Lleu Sayer _drove ships onto the rocks, it tore sails in half with its teeth and wrestled for control of the helm. For these deadly antics it had earned an alternate name: the _Widow’s Wail. _

Yet for once,  _ Lleu Sayer  _ lay idle: it had ceded its dominion of the skies over Ferelden for a single night.  _ Nualláini,  _ its gentler cousin, exhaled into the Circle ship’s mainsail: filling it until it strained at the mast. The vessel carrying the Warden-recruits and their allies cut through Calenhad like a scythe parting still waters. It would arrive at Redcliffe by sunrise: exceeding even the most optimistic predictions made by the captain. 

The wooden hull of the ship provided some protection against the midwinter chill. The cabins set below the deck lacked windows but were better insulated for it; as frost crept along the mast and stiffened the sails, the occupants happily relinquished natural light for warmth. 

Alistair’s cabin was an ink-spill of darkness, broken in three places by the lantern, the faint lustre of his sister-warden, and the line of light beneath the door. The hall beyond was quiet, and the organic sounds of the wooden ribwork were muffled by the water: the cabin seemed to exist apart from the rest of the ship, a world within a world. 

Alistair would not have minded such a severance. The bunk was designed for the breadth of one person, and not one of his unusual dimensions. His feet stuck out from the far end and one shoulder protruded over the edge: yet he would not have extended it for all the coin in Ferelden. 

_ Do you want me to go back and share a room with the teacher?  _ Flora had asked, solemnly. 

_ No,  _ Alistair replied without hesitation: startled by the urgency in his voice.  _ No, stay here, with me.  _

_ We can still sleep together? _

There was no latent meaning to Flora’s question. In the wake of his observation - that she needed more time to grieve Duncan - she was unsure what degree of closeness was appropriate. Alistair had responded by leaning back into the bunk; bringing her down with him in a seamless movement. She made herself comfortable, as though he were a mattress of bone and muscle. Her body, submerged within the loose pleats of the nightshirt, settled on his; the contours and angles of flesh aligning with eerie cohesion. If the intimacy of her mending had been torturous, her proximity was an ecstatic agony: Flora was Maker-naked beneath the linen. Her damp and unravelling braid left wet fabric in its wake, which then clung to the skin beneath. 

Alistair held her in silence for several minutes, astonished at how his pulse slowed to match the measured, deliberate beat of her heart. His thumb had stolen within the loosened lacing at the back of the nightshirt; it traced languid circles at the base of Flora’s spine. 

She roused herself from her thoughts, propping herself up on a forearm. The nightshirt slid down her shoulder, sagging open at the collarbone.

“Did you ever win any prizes when you were at the Templar mon-  _ monatarly _ ?” she asked, a question entirely unprompted. “Monstery.” 

“What, like... as part of a competition?” 

Flora nodded, stifling a yawn. She made no effort to cover herself; he did not hide his admiration of her breast: small, freckled and tilted upwards. The nipple had the same blushing hue as her tongue. 

“Only for physical contests. Not for anything  _ intellectual _ ,” he replied, gazing at her. “Brute strength, wrestling, that sort of thing. Took a lot of knocks to the head, which probably explains a lot.” 

Still, Flora was impressed: the only prize that she had won in the Circle was  _ Tidiest Bunk _ , and that had been a case of mistaken identity. There were three  _ Floras  _ on the apprentice floor, and the medal had been reassigned to its rightful owner shortly after. She settled back down against his chest, his pulse beating a steady tempo on her cheek. 

Alistair wondered whether being in a constant state of arousal was  _ healthy _ . He knew that Flora was aware of it - she could hardly plead ignorance, given her physical proximity - and yet she seemed wholly content. He had made a single attempt to adjust himself and spare his - friend? companion? Sister-warden?- the unmistakable strain against her thigh. Flora had intercepted him wordlessly, slender fingers curling around his with deceptive innocence as they guided his hand back to her waist. After that, Alistair made no effort to disguise the hard line of flesh. 

“Why do you ask?” he asked, slightly stilted. “About prizes, I mean.” 

She made an ambiguous noise. Neither of them wanted to discuss the Blight, or how much of the south had already been claimed by the Darkspawn, or the whereabouts of the Archdemon. 

“Did you ever win anything at the Circle?” he continued, and felt Flora’s incredulity against his shoulder. 

“Me! Noooo. No. Never. I ain’t smart.”

“Me neither.”

They were silent for several moments: each one grateful that the other was not an intellectual. His palm settled on her neck, warm and heavy; one thumb stroking the convergence of hair and skin. The touch felt disproportionately intimate. Flora tilted her head into the contour of his cupped hand like a Mabari desiring attention. The exposed line of her neck shone milky-white in the candlelight; Alistair wanted to taste the hollow of her throat. He also wanted her to make the same half-gasp that she had made earlier: her whimper had awoken a feral hunger within him. 

Alistair heaved a deep sigh and shifted position in an attempt to distract himself. This resulted in several unwelcome exposures of his body to the cold air outside the blanket. Flora clung to his shoulders as he shifted like an unmoored boat beneath her. 

“I’m too long for this bunk,” he explained, settling back against the mattress. “One day I’ll find a bed that keeps my feet warm.” 

“Oh.” She thought for a moment, admiring the breadth of his shoulder. It reminded her of the foremast’s spar, extending its wingspan above the ship’s deck. “Maybe you’re descended from a giant.” 

He eyed the rumpled crown of her head in the darkness, amused. 

“A  _ giant?!”  _

“Mm. We have ‘em on the northern coast. They don’t cause no trouble, ‘long as you don’t get too close.” 

There came a creak of wood from the wall: the occupant of the neighbouring cabin had just settled down on their own bunk. 

“Tobin says that his dad was a giant,” a sleepy Flora continued, tilting her head towards the slow stroke of his thumb. 

Realising that Alistair had no idea who she was referring to, she clarified. 

“Tobin’s Herring’s carpenter. He  _ is  _ massive. It might be true.” 

“I feel sorry for Tobin’s mother,” Alistair replied drily. “Though I think having a giant for a father would be preferable to the one I’ve got.”

Maric Theirin had not been a stranger to Alistair that evening. The old king had inadvertently instructed his son in the art of  _ restraint:  _ or, how Alistair was able to maintain some semblance of control with a single layer of linen between himself and a naked Flora. Alistair had heard all the stories, and although each one was shaped differently by the teller, they remained the same at their core: 

_ When the old Theirin was young, he was overcome with desire for his best friend’s lover: he seduced her and then he stole her. Loghain never forgave him, not really. You don’t properly forgive that. _

_ Jehane’s husband hasn’t bedded her for months.  _

_ What’s his excuse? - not even the depths of the Deep Roads could stop Maric Theirin from seeking his pleasure with one of his companions.  _

The last tale was told only by a few: it had chafed at Alistair for a decade.

_ King Maric stayed at Redcliffe for three days and three nights, one and twenty years ago. While he was there, a servant woman caught his eye. He bedded her and then bade her farewell, ignorant of the seed he had planted in the plush soil of her belly.  _

Although Alistair could not help his physical resemblance to his father, he was determined not to mimic Maric’s carnal appetites. He had seen all too well how such impulsive desire manifested in Cailan, who flaunted his adulterous liaisons as though they were his birthright. Despite Morrigan’s taunts, Alistair had declined plentiful offers over the years to rid himself of his virginity. The priestess wanted more than kisses in the monastery’s chapel; there had been a brothel in Denerim; women had always darted admiring glances at him from the tail of their eye. Each opportunity he had declined, though not unkindly. 

Now, as Alistair held his warm and pliant sister-warden in his arms, he was sorely tempted to yield to the Theirin lust that gnawed like a wolf within his belly . The nightgown was no barrier: it clung to Flora’s body like a taunt. All it would take was a lifting of fabric, a slight bend of her thigh, and then he would have her. He had not even kissed her yet; not on her mouth, at least. 

“Flora,” he said into the subterranean gloom. Her whole body moved in response to her name on his tongue: fingers curling on his shoulder and face turning up to his. Her braid was unravelling in slow inches, the dark red strands trapped between them. 

“Mm.”

Alistair didn’t know how to finish the half-formed thought. His fingers found the slackened lacing at the small of Flora’s back; he wondered how easily it might come undone. He could not stop thinking about the freckles scattered over the ripe apple of her breast: proof that she was a girl of flesh and blood, and not some sculptor’s alabaster creation. He wanted to see if she had freckles elsewhere on her body too: delicate stipplings the colour of weak Antivan tea. 

_ “Flora,” _ he said again, and the name had raw entreaty in it. “Tell me one of your Herring stories.”

It was a plea:  _ distract me.  _

Flora, to his overwhelming relief, did not question his diversionary tactics. She paused for a moment while she drew one up from her memory like an anchor. While she rifled through her internal archive, Alistair turned onto his side; bringing her with him in a seamless gesture. Her body fit alongside his like a Tevinter puzzle-piece; he tucked himself in tightly around her. 

“Do you know what’s beyond the Amaranthine?” she whispered as though imparting a secret, naming the ocean that bordered Ferelden to the east. 

He shook his head; they were close enough that Flora could feel the voiceless answer. Sure enough she continued speaking in a practised rhythm: the story had been passed down through the Ages like an heirloom. 

“Beyond lies an endless sea, as wide as the sky,” she said, her voice distant. “A sea without shores. And there are storms the size of countries that roam its waves: these are called  _ untethered storms.  _ Only two creatures are able to survive these storms, one that lives in the air, and the other that lives in the water. The first is the albatross. Do you know what an albatross is?”

Alistair half-shrugged, mesmerised by the soft growl of her voice: throaty and unassuming. “No. A type of seagull?”

He could feel her indignation. 

“No.  _ No.  _ It’s a bird with wings larger than a ship’s sails. It carries the souls of dead sailors over the sea, and on to the endless ocean. If you see it, you’ll have good luck for a year. But  _ once _ you see it, you have to look away quickly - if you see the same albatross twice, you’ll only live as many years as the bird has feathers in its tail.”

Independent of instruction, Alistair’s hand crept downwards. It drew the fabric of Flora’s nightgown upwards, then - with nonchalant familiarity - claimed the smooth landscape of her thigh. His fingers skated over the skin, moving in abstract patterns as he listened. Part of him felt as though he were in a dream: cocooned in an earthy darkness with his sister-warden’s hoarse whisper drifting from beneath his chin. 

“The second creature that can survive an untethered storm is called  _ Nilidh  _ in the north _ , _ ” Flora continued, stifling another yawn. “And  _ Kraken  _ everywhere else. It’s so big that when it moves, the entire ocean moves with it. That’s what makes the tide go in and out. No one knows what it looks like though, because no one has seen it and lived.” 

Alistair traced her name across her thigh with his thumb. He almost asked if the Kraken could defeat the Archdemon for them, and then remembered that they were in unspoken agreement to avoid the topic of the Blight. 

“Once, many Ages ago, the  _ Nilidh  _ came to the Waking Sea for the first time,” his sister-warden said, solemn and focused as a novice reading from the Chant of Light. Her voice emerged from the mossy darkness, soft as damp leaves underfoot. 

The words were not hers - there were far too many of them to belong to the laconic Flora - but the creation of storytellers from Ages past; passed on by mouth round campfire or by candlelight.

“While it was there, a fisherman saw it from the shore. He decided that he would kill it while it was in unfamiliar waters.” 

Alistair could not emphasise with the reckless fisherman. He - at some point - would also be faced with a vast and monstrous foe; he could think of nothing more foolish than launching a preemptive strike. He felt grateful for the warm pressure of his sister-warden’s back against his chest. 

“And so the fisherman took his little boat out into the wind and waves, and sailed right up to the  _ Nilidh _ . The creature swallowed him in one gulp and he was never seen again.” 

Flora did not seem bothered by the melancholic resolution: Herring stories usually finished poorly for their protagonists. Alistair, on the other hand, preferred a happier ending.

“‘ _ But then…’ _ ” he prompted, encouraging.

“But then what?”

“We’ve had enough tragic endings recently,” he reminded her, and the teasing tone had a raw vein running through it. “Add on a happy bit.” 

“Ain’t a bard,” Flora replied, vaguely alarmed. 

“Come on, my dear. For me.” 

Flora took a deep breath, her brow furrowing in three places. Unable to help himself, Alistair pressed his lips to the name of her neck; inhaling the salt-soap scent. Her fingers drifted over his, following the ridged line of his knuckles. 

“But,” she said eventually, more hesitant with her own words than with those she had inherited.  _ “But,  _ the Old Man of the Sea took pity on the fisherman. He took out his hook and line, and drew the dead man’s soul up from the black well of the Fade. He put the soul into the last creature that the fisherman had caught, which was an eel. The eel found itself in the  _ Nilidh’s  _ belly, but - since it was so slender - it was able to swim back up inside the monster’s throat. There it stuck fast, and the  _ Nilidh  _ choked to death. The fisherman swam off into the endless ocean, and was never seen again.  _ THE END.” _

Flora pressed her lips together and eyed the wall, mutinous. She was determined to avoid any more  _ creative exertion:  _ she did not claim to own an  _ ‘imagination’. _

Fortunately, Alistair seemed to be satisfied with her amended ending: she felt him smile against her hair. 

“So he had to spend the rest of his life as an eel?” he murmured into Flora’s ear, one arm folded over her belly as he bent his lengthy bulk around her. “I thought you were making it a happy ending.” 

“That _was _a happy ending,” she replied, mid-yawn. “The fisherman defeated the monster, and he was _altogether_ _changed. _He would learn to live as an eel, eventually. He would appreciate how to be _something other.” _

They were both silent for several minutes, aware of their isolation in the damp and earthy darkness. The stillness was accompanied by the groan of the eaves: the muffled snoring from their neighbour in the next cabin; the whisper of water against the hull. The lack of windows was disorientating: they could have been underground, nestled together like creatures in hibernation. 

“I never thought- ” 

Alistair trailed off, the words left hanging in the shadow. Flora did not prompt him to finish, focused on tracing each of his knuckles with a careful fingertip. He took another deep breath; she felt his ribcage expand against the back of her head. 

“I never thought that- ”

He did not know where to begin: it seemed too much to fit into the span of an ordinary sentence.

_ I never thought that I would lie in bed with a mage.  _

_ I never thought that when I first set eyes on you, we would end up like this. _

_ I never thought that Duncan would die before we had even begun to fight back. _

_ I never thought that there would be just us left. Two of us against the Archdemon.  _

_ Why does it feel as though I’m holding the world in my arms?  _

“I know,” whispered Flora, her voice disembodied in the darkness. “I know.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2021!! I don’t want to jinx anything, but thank fuck that shitshow of a year is over. Only silver lining is that thanks to working from home, I got to spend the whole spring with my baby girl when I was meant to be in the office. So that was amazing! Anyway, I hope you managed to celebrate a least a bit during the holidays. Even if it was an odd one this year! 
> 
> So anyway: this chapter! Lots of Herring lore, which I love making up, hehehe. Love a few tales from Herring! I didn’t make up the bit about albatrosses carrying the souls of dead sailors, that’s a mariner legend. I also made up the stuff about the names of the winds, but historically our winds (in real life!) have been given names - look up the classical compass winds! So cool! 
> 
> Anyway, in this chapter we have a remarkable display of what NOT to do when you’re trying to put things on hold :P I thought this was a pretty good reflection of their immaturity: Alistair’s literally just said that he’s going to give her more time to get over Duncan, and then they’re both groping each other beneath the blankets like a pair of horny teenagers! Which they basically are, lol. Neither of them have the maturity to get out of the bed and sleep separately, which would have been the SENSIBLE thing to do if they wanted to slow things down. 
> 
> Also, a bit of foreshadowing with Flora’s made up ending to the story: the fisherman defeated the monster, but he was altogether changed.

**Author's Note:**

> Reuploading! 
> 
> I’m tweaking a few things with the reupload; firstly, editing Flora in the first few chapters to portray her more as the character she became (I started writing this story in 2016 and she’s a pretty different girl now!) And secondly, rewriting some of the early stuff so it’s not bloody awful haha


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